


What We Do Before

by Zi_Night



Series: A Tale of Surviving [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, POV Alternating, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-03-04 22:08:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 23,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18821728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zi_Night/pseuds/Zi_Night
Summary: What if Rhaenys was more Targaryen than everyone thought she was? What if Arthur Dayne had to live with the consequences of his actions? A look into what could have been if circumstances had been different.





	1. Chapter One – The Red Keep 283 AC

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a prequel fic to something I might expand into something larger. This piece is already complete and I will be posting new chapters on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

Usually Jaime would have relished any errand that sent him away from the king. Any excuse to be out of that room that stank of burned flesh and hair. Any excuse to be away from that madman would, normally, lift his troubled spirits. But this errand was something Jaime wished he would never have to do.

His walk to Maegor’s Holdfast felt like an eternity. He wondered if this was another ploy to torture him. To make him the one that had to face down the royal family when they learned the fate of the crown prince. Or maybe this was the king’s way of torturing the royal family. Of showing them that he didn’t care enough about them to deliver the news himself.

Jaime’s uneventful walk into the holdfast was another sad reminder of how terrible things were. There was no one to greet him walking into the holdfast because he was the last of the Kingsguard in King’s Landing. He hadn’t seen half the guard since the Battle of the Bells and now the other half had been defeated at the Battle of the Trident. He hoped, even prayed, that he wasn’t the last of the Kingsguard left alive, but he was constantly reminded that he was the only one left in the Red Keep.

A passing maid let him know that Queen Rhaella and Princess Elia were currently in the nursery. With a heavy heart, Jaime made his way up. From the hallway, he could hear the laughter of children. The sweet, twinkling giggles of Princess Rhaenys and the too loud laughs of Prince Viserys echoed through the hall. Even though he knew that the children would be there, their mothers hadn’t let them out of their sight since the rebellion began, he had wished that they would be sleeping.  

Jaime knocked on the door to announce his presence, before stepping into the nursery. He briefly caught sight of Queen Rhaella, with her slightly swollen belly, and Princess Elia, cradling baby Aegon to her chest, before sweeping into a low bow. His bow let him see Balerion as the kitten approached to rub his face against his shins. He rose from his bow just in time to catch Rhaenys as she crashed into his knees. Her violet eyes gleamed at having caught him off guard.

“Ser Jaime, what brings you here?” The queen’s voice was gentle but anxious. She was aware that King Aerys rarely let him leave his side. Whatever look he failed to keep from his face only served to make the woman more anxious.

“We’ve received word from the Trident. The rebels won the battle.” Jaime couldn’t help but pause. The news he brought would only get worse from here and he desperately wished there was someone else here to deliver it. The hand he had settle on Rhaenys’s shoulder tightened slightly as he continued, “Prince Rhaegar fell in combat.”

While Jaime was of the opinion that Elia and Rhaegar had never been _in_ love, there was no denying that they had cared for each other and that care was obvious in the way that Elia’s face fell at his words. In how her arms tightened around her son and in the seconds it took for her to compose herself. The queen shut her eyes and took a deep breath before asking, “What else do you have to report?”

He clears his throat as he turns to Elia and says, “Ser Lewyn was also lost at the Trident.” Elia’s eyes turned watery and he decided he could no longer look at the ladies in front of him. He delivered the rest of the report to some tapestry behind them. “Ser Jonothor was also slain in combat. Ser Barristan was lost in combat, but it seems that he is being held by the rebels.” He took a deep breath and added, “Queen Rhaella, you and Viserys are to prepare for travel. In the morning, you will be leaving for Dragonstone.”

Try as he might, he didn’t miss the way Elia’s head snapped towards him. In his time guarding her, he had learned that Elia was a smart and intuitive woman. He was sure she understood that the lack of mention meant that she and her children were to stay here. He was also sure she knew that they would not be safe here.

Queen Rhaella rose from her seat and beckoned Viserys towards her. Without question, the boy hurried over to her, taking her skirt in hand. She looked at the two of them and said, “We must go prepare. If you’ll excuse us.” Without waiting for a response, she swept out of the room.

Rhaenys, who couldn’t have understood the severity of what they were talking about but who had picked up on the change in the room, raised her arms so that Jaime would hold her. HE could feel Elia’s eyes on him like a physical weight as he lifted the princess into his arms. The little girl tucked her head against his throat, her jet-black curls brushed against his chin, while her mother waved him over. “Please, Ser Jaime, have a seat. There are some things I’d like to discuss with you.”

He moved toward the chair like a man heading to his execution, hesitantly and uneasy. He carefully adjusted his sword and the girl in his arms before sitting down in the chair the queen had vacated. Elia gazed down at her sleeping son while she gathered her thoughts. When she looked up Jaime couldn’t ignore how sad she looked. “Do you know why?”

“The king thinks Ser Lewyn and Dorne betrayed him at the Trident. He’s keeping you here as … insurance so that Dorne won’t betray him again.”

Elia’s laugh caught him off guard, as it was bitter and so unlike her usual laugh. Even little Aegon stirred at the odd sound. She gently rocked the boy until he settled back down. Even with that show of tenderness to her son, Elia’s mood did not lift. Guilt ate at Jaime. He was all too aware of how he was one of their captors here.

He and Elia had bonded rather quickly after his appointment to the Kingsguard and he felt like it was because of their similar circumstances. They were both hostages of the king kept to keep their families in line and that was true now more than ever. Because of that Jaime liked to consider Elia his friend, or at least a friendly acquaintance, but he wondered if he could still consider himself her friend when he was complicit in her captivity.

“Jaime, tell me honestly; do you think we will be safe here?”

He felt Rhaenys tense in his arms. He rubbed gentle circles against her back, but he knew his answer would bring her no comfort. “No. Varys has already reported that the rebel army is heading this direction. He also thinks my father and the Lannister army are coming this way. We only have so long before they get here.”

“You don’t think the you father is coming to defend us,” it wasn’t a question, but a statement.

“No. There was no pomp and circumstance to announce his departure from Casterly Rock. If my father were coming to aid the king we would have known he was coming long before the army left the rock. Besides, the war’s been won and my father will not side with the losing faction.”

She looked at him for a moment. Something about her gaze flustered him so he looked down at the girl in his arms. “And you? What side will you be on?” Her question was quiet and severe and striking.

Had circumstances been different, he might have rankled at her question, but he understood that this wasn’t a question about his loyalties. This was a mother wanting to know about her family’s safety after so many of its protectors had been lost. “I promised Rhaegar that I would defend his family. That I would defend you and the children.”

She nodded distractedly. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to know what she was thinking or if he was better off not knowing. In the end, he didn’t ask. They just sat together in silence until he didn’t have an excuse to stay there any longer.


	2. Chapter Two - The Red Keep 283 AC

Getting a summons in the middle of the night never bode well, especially when that summons came from Lord Varys. The, decidedly plain, servant hadn’t even told him the point of the summons, only that Lord Varys wanted him to meet him in the godswood as soon as possible. He hadn’t even had the chance to process the summons before the servant raced off to do whatever else was expected of them. Jaime didn’t bother putting on his armor, he just grabbed his sword belt and made his way towards the gardens.

Not only was it late, but the cloud cover hid any light the moon might have offered. The path to the gardens was as lonely as it had been since the rebellion started. The ladies of the court were too agitated to casually stroll the gardens and, with the gardens being inaccessible from anywhere other than the keep, the gold clocks had slacked on their patrols here. He probably should have scolded them for it, but he valued his time away from the king too much to go around doing someone else’s job.

He couldn’t help the yawn that slipped out of him. He hoped the eunuch would at least be quick about whatever this was. He felt like it was just the man’s style to summon someone without informing them what the meeting was for. All this did was strengthen his distrust for the man. Still Varys was one of, if not the, most trustworthy members of the king’s small council and didn’t that speak volumes about the kingdom’s current state of affairs.

He flinched when a black spot separated itself from an overhanging branch to perch itself on his shoulder. He felt Balerion’s claws dig into his clothes as the kitten tried to keep himself on his shoulder. The kitten let out an indignant mewl when Jaime plucked him off his shirt and cupped him in his palm. Balerion had been a gift from Rhaegar to his daughter, a gift he had given before he had disappeared to whisk away Lyanna Stark. He found it odd that Balerion was out here terrorizing him since the kitten rarely left Princess Rhaenys’s side.

Once he neared the heart tree he spotted Varys, but not alone. He was quietly speaking with Princess Elia. As he rounded the corner, he also saw Princess Rhaenys curled in her mother’s lap, sleeping and likely the reason the other two were keeping their voices down. The pair stopped conversing once he approached. The secrecy and oddness of this meeting set his teeth on edge.

“Thank you for coming, Ser Jaime.” He wondered if there would be a day when Varys’s simpering voice wouldn’t irritate him, because today was apparently not the day.

“Princess. Lord Varys. What is the meaning of this?”

“I have received word that the rebel army is closing in. We should expect them in a day. Or two, at most.”

“So I have heard. That doesn’t explain this.”

“Ser Jaime, you told me that you didn’t think your father was coming to side with the king.” Elia waited until he gave a nod of confirmation, “Then this meeting is so that I may ask something of you. I ask that you take Rhaenys with you to the tower so that she may … be better protected during the siege.”

“My lady, I’m sure that won’t be necessary. Reports claim that the usurper was injured at the Trident and that Ned Stark is leading the oncoming army. Stark is reputed to be an honorable man and I doubt he will let any harm come to you and your family.”

Varys shifted uneasily before speaking, “Stark may be honorable, but can you guarantee the same of all his men? I’m sure you are aware that, in battle, impulse can take over even the best of soldier.”

As much as Jaime disliked Varys, there was no denying that he had a point. Stark being honorable meant he would try and keep his soldiers from pillaging, but his men could ignore him. How long would his commands hold out when his men were presented with temptation after temptation? Still, he had other concerns.

“The siege is still some days away. Won’t someone notice that the princess has disappeared?”

Elia hesitated before answering, “Lord Varys has found an orphan girl who looks like my daughter. I would keep her by my side if you took Rhaenys.”

It took a moment for him to truly understand what she was saying. This wasn’t about protecting Rhaenys, this was about making sure she survived because Elia didn’t think they would. It felt like a pit had opened in his stomach and his next words felt hollow and weak. “Princess I will do my best to ensure your family’s safety.” It was the last thing Rhaegar had asked him to do. It was one of the only things Rhaegar had asked him to do.

“I know you will, but I want you to focus on her safety.”

“What of Aegon’s safety? Or yours? If Lord Varys is on your side then surely he could help you escape.”

“Even if we could escape, we would spend the rest of our lives being hunted like animals. My children would survive but they would not live. And what would that mean for you, and Varys, and Dorne. I cannot escape alone and all of you, and more, would be suspect. And about Aegon specifically, his silver hair would be hard to replace and we don’t have time.” Elia paused and her next words were even quieter and morose, “People thought that Rhaenys’s Dornish looks were a bad omen, but it just might save her.”

“You talk as though you know you are going to die!” While quiet, the statement came out much harsher than he intended. “What if you don’t die? What if we parley and the soldier never make it to the keep?”

Elia spent a moment smoothing back her daughter’s hair. Knowing what he did, the act felt like a goodbye. “About a month ago, Rhaenys woke up upset from a nightmare. She said she had dreamt about men climbing up the side of the holdfast to kill us.” Elia settle her hand on her daughter’s head and made sure to look him in the eye for what she said next. “Rhaegar once told me that Targaryens had visions. Premonitions of the future. He left for that girl because of the visions he saw, and I think. No, I am sure, that her violet eyes are not the only Targaryen trait Rhaenys inherited.”

“What if she didn’t,” his voice felt small. “What if she didn’t inherit that gift?”

“Ser Jaime, swear to me that you will protect my daughter. If nothing happens then we can laugh about silly superstitions. But if I die, head crushed by a terrible man, then I can die knowing that I did what I could to keep my daughter safe.” The look in her eyes reminded him that, for all that people thought her weak, Elia was still a Martell. Even in the face of death she would remain unbowed, unbent, and unbroken.

He gave a shallow nod. “I swear to you, I will protect your daughter.” Elia seemed to deflate at his words. Like this was her last stand. And maybe that was true. Maybe this would be the last time she saw him and her daughter. Maybe this would be the last thing of note she would do.

Elia gently shook her daughter into waking. He couldn’t hear the words murmured between them, but the tight and extended hug they shared pulled at his heart. Even Varys had the decency to turn away, apparently also believing this to be the pair’s final moments together. Jaime focused on the trees around them until a little hand tugged at his tunic. He looked down at Rhaenys and smiled, in what he hoped was a reassuring way. He passed the kitten, he had admittedly forgot about, over to the girl, before picking her up. He shared one last, sad look with Elia before making his way back to his quarters.

\---

When Jaime left his room in the morning he had Rhaenys promise that she would stay there until he came back. With him being the only Kingsguard left, no one else came into the tower but he wasn’t going to take any risks with her safety. By midday he was grateful he had. His father’s army had arrived and the idiot Pycelle had convinced the King that he should open the gates. Now he was stuck trying to minimize damage in, what he knew would be, a losing battle. He could see King’s Landing burning and he anxiously waited for the messenger he had sent to the king. The sooner he could make terms with his father, the less the people of King’s Landing had to suffer.

He felt something akin to relief when he saw his messenger racing back towards him. The boy stumbled to a stop and slumped in front of him, panting to try and catch his breath. It took all of Jaime’s little patience to not shake the boy and get him to spit out what he had to say.

Once the boy caught his breath, which took far too long in Jaime’s eyes, he looked up and said, “The king doesn’t want you to leave and make terms.” That by itself felt like a slap in the face, but then he continued with, “instead the king ordered that you bring him your father’s head. To prove you aren’t a traitor.”

“Do you have anything else to report?” The words felt like they were spoken by someone else.

“Uh. Only that the king called for his hand as I was leaving.”

The boy hadn’t finished the statement as Jaime began sprinting toward the great hall. Adrenaline burst through him as he ran. The king had called for his pyromancer. One of three pyromancers the kings had made line the city with wildfire so that they usurper would be kings of nothing. The king wasn’t planning on saving King’s Landing, he was planning to burn the city to the ground.

He doesn’t know how he found the bastard. He hardly remembers running through the keep, but he sees him. Something about seeing Rossart dressed as a common soldier fills him with rage, smothering his previous panic. He’s on the pyromancer before the man even notices. Even after Rossart realized the threat he was faced with; the fight could hardly be called a fight. Even if Jaime’s assignment to the Kingsguard had been a sham, there was no denying he was a hundred times the swordsman Rossart was. He quickly sinks hiss blade into Rossart’s belly and leaves his guts spilled on the floor.

His trek to the great hall happens in a similar haze. His blood is still roaring and he can hear it thumping in his ears. He isn’t thinking as he moves. Instead he is propelled forward by a strange mix of rage and protective instincts. He has to stop this.

His mind is still empty when he pushes open the doors of the great hall. He sees Aerys pacing. Wringing his blood hands while he waits for the city to go up in flames. When the king catches sight of him he begins to rave, like the madman he is. Yelling and pointing and hysterical. Jaime doesn’t hear most of it over the roaring of his blood. He feels strangely detached from himself as he approaches the king. He comes back to himself just in time to hear what the king demanded of him.

“Whose blood? Whose?”

“Rossart’s.” Something savage rises in Jaime’s chest at the king’s response. His eyes widen and his mouth falls open. The king lurches back toward the throne, as though it would somehow save him. As though that thing wasn’t the cause of his downfall. Jaime takes a stab at him before he pulls the frail madman off the steps leading up to the throne and slits his throat with a clean pass of his sword. A dull and suppressed part of him notes that it is the only clean part if this whole mess. A cynical part of him thinks a king should be harder to kill than this.

Before the king is well and dead he hears the doors crash open behind him. He doesn’t really register the knight before him, only that they wear his father’s colors. The first thought that crosses his mind is regret, the way these men look at him lets him know that this kill will haunt him for the rest of his life.

He only half hears their report. He doesn’t know what part of him has the presence of mind to tell them that they should report the king’s death and that they should be merciful to those who surrender, but he is grateful for it.  It’s only at the men’s next words that the blood truly begins to fade from his ears.

“Who shall I proclaim as the new king?” The question makes him think of Aegon and then of Elia. She was so sure they would die tonight. That somehow a threat would make its way into the tower and crush her. He prayed that she was wrong. That Rhaenys’s nightmare had just been a dream and not a premonition. He couldn’t leave the throne room, not after what he had just done.

He makes a dismissive comment about them naming whatever king they want and moves to sit on the Iron Throne. As they leave he settle himself on the throne, sword across his lap. He sits and waits and prays.


	3. Chapter Three - The Red Keep 283 AC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will have some Arthur Dayne.  
> Warning; this chapter has some graphic descriptions of violence. To avoid it skip the paragraph after the sentence "If anything, his father had probably convinced himself he had every reason to kill them."

He stayed on the throne until Ned Stark came to claim the throne. He rode in on his horse with the rebel army marching behind him. He watched the Lannister army part to let him through. It seems the war was over, the usurper had one.

The way Stark looked at him as he approached made Jaime spiteful. How dare the man come here, with his holier-than-thou face, when he didn’t know what had happened here. How dare the man judge him when he only had an inkling into what kind of monster Aerys was. The look on Stark’s face made him want to do something stupid, like deny him the throne. They stared at each other, Jaime defiant and Stark disapproving, for far too long, before Jaime relinquished the throne. He had other responsibilities to tend to and making an enemy, or rather more of an enemy, out of Stark wouldn’t help him.

Because his life could never be easy, Stark forced him to stay in the throne room. It seemed that Robert was impatient and, even though he was injured, wouldn’t stay away from the fight. Not that there was much fighting now. King’s landing was being raided. And what was the honorable Ned Stark doing about it; watching one man as though he was responsible for it all.

When Robert finally arrived, they had been pushing towards morning. By then Jaime was exhausted, more mentally than physically, and was itching to head back to his quarters. He had little respect for the pomp and circumstance that preceded Robert. He just wanted for all of this to be over, preferably, as quickly as possible.

As Robert settle on the throne, they brought in Varys and Pycelle. It seemed they would be dealing with all of them at the same time. He didn’t really listen as Robert and his council talked. He wasn’t one to plead for his life and, even if he was, he didn’t think anything he said would sway them. It didn’t matter because it seemed like Robert had come already planning to pardon them.

The arrival of his father caught him by surprise more than it should have. He should have expected his father to want audience with the new king, but he hadn’t been thinking clearly since he killed the king. It appeared his father had come to pledge his loyalty to the new King Robert. It took him far too long to understand what the red bundles his father had brought with him meant. He presented the three caped bundles to the throne. One adult sized bundle, one child sized, and one baby sized. All of them dripping blood across the hall’s floor.

He couldn’t find it in himself to look away. Even as horror built up inside him, a desperate sense of denial forced him to keep looking. An irrational part of him whispered maybes, but he knew it had to be hem. His father had no reason to spare Elia’s family. If anything, his father had probably convinced himself he had every reason to kill them.

He doesn’t know who does it. He doesn’t know who had the courage to pull up the corners of the cloaks and reveal the people underneath. The room has a visceral reaction to the unveiling of Elia’s body. There are a number of sharp inhales and the shifting of armor as the battle-hardened men turn away. The mess that was Elia’s head makes bile rise in his throat, but he forces himself to watch as someone unveils the children. The child that would have been Rhaenys is the most identifiable of the bodies, but her whole front has been torn to shreds by a blade. The man had ruined the girl’s eyes, the only thing that could have confirmed she wasn’t the child they thought she was. Aegon is in the same state as his mother, only gore where his head had been. He thinks about how Elia had not given him Aegon because she was worried that a double’s hair would give them away, but it wouldn’t have mattered.

As people begin to filter out, he can hear Stark say something to the king. He knows enough to recognize the beginnings of an argument even if he isn’t paying attention to the words. He starts to listen once Stark begins to raise his voice. Ned Stark was known as the quiet wolf. The loss of composure was jarring.

“They were no more than babes!”

“I see no babes. Only dragonspawn.”

It takes all his composure not to go up there and murder the new king. He watches how Stark flushes with anger and storms out of the room, allowed to express the anger he is forced to shove done. They were only children who posed little threat. Even Elia, who was well connected in the world, would likely cede the throne for the lives of her children. He is known for indulging his impulses, but he doesn’t give into the urge to make a scene. He needs to get to his room. He needs to confirm the princess is alive.

Once he’s given leave, he makes sure to keep his pace even. He swore he would protect this girl and he wasn’t about to get her killed just because he couldn’t act naturally. He had never though that the White Sword Tower was that far from the great hall, but right now he curses whoever designed the keep. He also can’t stifle the feeling of paranoia that follows him as he walks. He feels like everyone is watching him, like they know what he is hiding. He tries to convince himself that they are watching him because he had killed the king, but it does little to settle him.

Once he is outside his room he can’t help but slump against the door. Both because he was tired and to give the princess some warning that someone was coming in. He doesn’t see her as he walks in, but Balerion was an obvious black spot on his bed. Curled up and asleep near the foot of his bed.

“Hello Balerion.” He could feel it in his bones that Rhaenys was hiding in the room, but he would let her come out on her own. He began to strip himself of his armor, only now noticing that he was dressed in Lannister gold instead of Kingsguard white. It took a while before he heard some shuffling come from under his bed. Rhaenys poked her head out from under the bed. Her amethyst eyes shown bright in the morning light, the only trait she had inherited from her late father.

“Is it over?”

“Yes, princess. You’ll have to stay here, but the war is over.”

She shuffled some more until she was out from under the bed. She did a brief scan of the room before reaching out to pluck Balerion off the bed. The cat didn’t complain about being manhandled, but he never did when she was the one doing the handling. As she stepped toward him, her steps were light and quiet, like she was still trying to hide even though he was here with her. She stops in front of him and looks him in the eye as she asks, “Mama?”

He could feel tears prickle at the corners of his eyes. “I’m sorry princess.” She nods and he doesn’t know who starts crying first, but they curl into each other as they weep. He doesn’t know how long they stay there, crying in the center of his room, but once they stop he feels determined. He may have broken all his other vows today, but he will see his last one through.


	4. Chapter Four - The Tower of Joy 283 A

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just letting y'all know all greatswords have been demoted to longswords cuz I can barely write longswords much less greatswords.

Arthur wasn’t sure why Lyanna asked for him so frequently. When he had asked, she had said that she had grown up surrounded by men so she preferred talking to her guard than the lady waiting on her. That didn’t explain why she called for him more so than Ser Oswell or Ser Gerold, but he didn’t point that out to her. While curious as to why, he didn’t really mind. There was little to do at the tower but wait, so if Lyanna wanted to talk to him to pass the time he wasn’t against it.

Though, maybe pass the time was the wrong way to describe what she was doing. Most of their most recent chats had involved her voicing her doubts. Of Rhaegar, of her decisions, of what they were doing, of whether this was worth it. It seemed more appropriate to call their time together confession. And maybe that was why she called for him more than the others. He didn’t reprimand her or give her sweet, but empty, reassurances. Instead he sat quietly when she spoke and answered honestly when she asked him questions. In a sense, he also confessed to her. She had a knack for asking difficult questions and then extracting even more difficult answers.

He feared this would be their last conversation. To say Lyanna’s pregnancy had gone poorly would be an understatement. He was unclear on what the complications had been, but Lyanna’s condition now was proof of those complications. The midwife was beyond her depth and had said that Lyanna was deteriorating too fast for them to get a maester and have him be of help. She had also reached the point where she had insisted that they stop changing the bed sheets. She had claimed that she didn’t care about laying in her own blood and that if it didn’t bother her then it shouldn’t bother them.

He was sure she was lying. That she did care about wasting away while lying in her own gore, but he didn’t confront her on it. He wouldn’t question how she was deciding to face her own death. He wondered what they would do after she died. If Aegon would survive her death? If Rhaegar would make it back before they died? If Rhaegar was still alive?

“Arthur. Arthur, you’ll defend Aegon after I’m gone, won’t you?”

“Of course, my lady.” He hadn’t gotten used to calling her your grace and it seemed like he wouldn’t get the chance to.

She thrust her arm out, blindly reaching for him. Once she had a grip on his hand she turned to him and said, “No. No, don’t just say thing. Promise me. Promise me you’ll watch over my son.”

A dark part of him wanted to say that promising was unnecessary, that Aegon would likely die with her, but he forced the thought down. It was only right that he fulfill this mother’s dying wish. “I promise that I will watch over and defend your son.”

Lyanna nodded in a slow, jerky fashion. Her face was red and he noticed that her eyes had taken on a slightly glazed appearance. He reached out with his free hand and pressed it against her forehead. Her head burned with fever. It seemed like today would be the day.

Before he got a chance to do anything with his revelation, the sound of an argument filtered in from outside. As he moved to stand up, he felt Lyanna tighten her grip on his hand. He looked at her as he tried to pull his hand from her grip but she just squeezed tighter. “Don’t go.”

“Lyanna, something is happening. I need to go see.”

“Please don’t go. Please. Stay here.” She looked up at him, with tears forming in her eyes. In that moment, she looked so small, so young. She reminded him of his sister, who he loved dearly and could deny nothing to. And he thought, if his sister was dying, wouldn’t he want someone to stay and comfort her? “Alright. Alright, I will stay her with you.”

They sat in silence while the sound of combat filtered through the open window. It was hard to try and gauge what was happening with only sound to go by and Arthur resigned himself to not knowing what was happening until the fight came to them. At some point the midwife entered with Aegon. The baby slept peacefully in her arms, unaware of any dangers in the world. Once the sound of fighting ended, they waited.

They heard the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. The midwife pressed herself against the wall, trying to attract as little attention as possible. Arthur stood and tried to put himself in a battle-ready stance, but again Lyanna refused to let go of his hand. Before he could do anything about it, a man burst through the door.

Even in her sickness Lyanna seems to quickly recognize him, “Ned!” Now Lyanna lets go of his hand to reach out toward her brother. Ned Stark looked at him warily, so Arthur slowly reaches down and removes his sword belt. He places Dawn on the floor and purposefully steps away from Lyanna. He was sure that his Kingsguard brothers were dead, but even knowing that he would not fight Lyanna’s brother in front of her. Maybe he wouldn’t have fought the man even if he had been outside when he arrived, not truly.

Apparently satisfied that he wasn’t a threat, Ned moves over to his sister’s side. He politely turns away as the too talk, but the room is only so big. He hears Ned tell her that Rhaegar is dead and that Robert had become king. He hears Lyanna plead for her son’s life and how she apologizes for what she had done. He hears hot Ned tries to comfort her and his promise to protect her son. The more they talk the hollower his chest feels. She catches them both off guard with what she says next. “Spare him Ned.”

“Spare who?”

“Spare Ser Arthur.” His head whips around to star at Lyanna and he catches the uneasy look Ned sends his way. When Ned doesn’t respond Lyanna continues with, “Ned it would be dishonorable to kill someone who has already been defeated.” Her words cut at him in the way only the truth can.

“And what would I do with him?”

“Take him with you. Ser Arthur is an honorable man and he has sworn to protect Aegon.” She pulls at her brother’s face so that his is looking at her. “Please Ned, for me.”

It seemed that Ned, like himself, could not deny his sister because he nodded his assent. For a moment, he wondered if it was for show. He considered that maybe Ned would kill him once his sister passed, but then he remembered all the things Lyanna told him of her brother. Of how Ned was honorable and always true to his word. The midwife handed Aegon to Ned and then he held his sister’s hand until she died.

\---

It took Ned’s surviving companion, prying his hand off from his sister’s, for Ned to come back to himself. After he had pulled himself together, he ordered Arthur and his surviving companion, a man by the name of Howland Reed, to make cairns for the dead out of the stones of the tower. Ned spoke to the midwife while they worked, likely wanting to know how his nephew was faring.

He and Howland worked, mostly, in silence, only speaking about things relevant to their joint project. He couldn’t help but find the man interesting. The man was small but dutiful and seemed like the type who believed that there was no point in doing something if they weren’t going to do it well. Though really, the thing he found most interesting about the man was how he didn’t resent him. If anything, it felt like Howland respected him and he couldn’t fathom why. He felt like Howland should have, at least, disliked him for his part in all the death here. Instead the man listened when he spoke and only made reasonable requests.

Right before they began to put the bodies in their future resting place, Ned approached them. Baby Aegon sat contently in his arms with his little hand curled around one of Ned’s fingers. Even while holding the baby, Ned looked severe and mournful. But for all the man’s severity he didn’t see hate in the man’s eyes either, only a bone deep weariness.

“The baby will go by Jon from now on and he is my son. For his safety, no one can know who his true parents are.” He waited until Arthur and Howland nodded before asking, “Ser Arthur I am willing to take you to Winterfell, but how would I explain your presence?”

“Tell them that you killed Arthur Dayne. Tell them that I am Vorian Sand, a hedge knight who helped you on the road and pledged himself to your house.”

“You seem confident that no one will recognize you.”

“I’ve never been north. And when people recognize the Sword of the Morning they don’t recognize the man. As a Kingsguard I walked in full plate with a helm that covered most of my face. When people recognized me, they recognized a white sword, white armor, and violet eyes. Return my sword to my house, let me piece together some armor, and we can explain the one thing that can’t be changed by saying I am a bastard.”

“Very well. You may take some armor from my companion’s bodies. We will have to also build a cairn for your body. We will head for Starfall early tomorrow so that I may give your family your sword. While I do that you and Howland will stay back and watch Jon.”

“I know I am in no position to be asking favors…”

“But?”

“My sister cares for you. If you tell her you killed me it will destroy her. I… I don’t know what you should tell her, but I ask that whatever you decide on you deliver gently.”

Bringing up his sister seemed to cause Ned more grief, but the man nodded in agreement to his request. It felt wrong to pick the armor off Stark’s dead men but this was the only option. Once he had pieced together a sufficient disguise for a hedge knight they began to set the bodies in their cairns. As they did so Ned turned to him and asked, “Lyanna said that you are a defeated man. Why?”

“Why do you think we came here?” When Ned didn’t answer, he continued, “Three Kingsguard is a costly guard during a war. If the prince didn’t expect much trouble, one guard would have been enough.  If he expected a significant amount of trouble then three guards wouldn’t have been enough. So why did we come here?

“We were all sure this wouldn’t end well. None of the others would have admitted this to you, but, as much as we loved our prince, we all had our doubts about his chances. About how likely he was to take over the throne.”

“Doubt is not the same as defeat.”

“No, it isn’t. But it wasn’t just doubt in Rhaegar. Rhaegar was our hope, so our doubt in him meant losing our grip on our hope. We came here to die.”

Ned looked shocked. Like he couldn’t believe the words he had said. Or maybe it was just that he didn’t want to believe. “But you were the Kingsguard. The most honorable knights in the realm. Every boy dreams of joining your ranks at some point in their life.”

Arthur couldn’t help but laugh at Ned’s words. He didn’t mean to let out such a harsh and cynical sound, but he couldn’t help it. “Yes, the Kingsguard. The most honorable knight of the realm who have vowed to follow and defend their king. But tell me, what happens to that honor when they serve a terrible king? What happens to a man when he is forced to stand by as atrocities happen in front of him? We came here to die an honorable death because the alternative meant living with what we had done. Or better said, what we hadn’t done.”

Ned turns to look him in the eye and waits until Arthur gives him his full attention. “Jaime Lannister killed the king.” And he wonders what Ned is looking for in his face and what it is he sees. The news only brings him more sorrow. Jaime had been a good man forced to witness more cruelty than anyone else on the Kingsguard. Even though he had been knighted under false pretenses, he took his duties seriously and wanted nothing more than to make his sworn brothers proud. It was a shame Jaime had been the one to do it.

“Then he did what one of us should have done a long time ago.”


	5. Chapter Five - Starfall 283 AC

Ned was not looking forward to his trip to Starfall. A year or two ago, he would have been delighted to visit the castle. The prospect of seeing Ashara would have filled him with joy, but today he only felt dread. But he had already gone and found a wet nurse for Jon and had no excuse for delaying.

He had arrived planning to speak with Lord Dayne, but when he asked for an audience he was told that Lord Dayne was out of the area on business. With a knot in his stomach he accepted the proposal to instead meet with the Lady of Starfall, with Ashara. He hadn’t thought of where he stood with Ashara since his wedding say. That day he had thought about how he had wished to one day marry Ashara, but instead he was marrying Catelyn Tully, his brother’s betrothal, because he had duties to fulfill for a position he never thought he would hold. Today he would meet with Ashara not only married to another woman but also bearing the news of her favorite brother’s death.

The steward lead him to some sitting room where Ashara was waiting. The whole walk there he considered what he would tell her. Meeting with her directly would make it easier to explain, or imply, that her brother was actually alive, but how could he do that without explaining the rest of it. All his plans fled from his mind once he saw her.

It sounded ridiculous to say that he had forgotten how beautiful Ashara was, but it was true. Though, maybe forgotten was the wrong way to describe it. It felt like his memory of her didn’t do her justice, like it was impossible for her beauty to be held in a memory. Even the mundane sight of her running household sums was filled with an ethereal grace and elegance.

For a moment, she seemed happy to see him. Once, her smile would have filled him with a shy warmth, but right now it only filled him with guilt. She quickly read his mood because she stopped smiling and instead furrowed her brow. She looked him over and her eyes quickly homed in on the sword he held clenched in his hand. Her hand flew up to cover her mouth and her large, purple eyes began to water with tears.

“I have come to return Dawn to House Dayne.” He placed the sword on the table in front of her. The second he let go of the sword, her hands darted out and pulled the sword toward her. She clutched the sword to her chest and he had the dull thought that he had never seen anyone gain comfort from a sword.

“What happened?” Her voice was sharp with grief.

“Ser Arthur was killed at the Tower of Joy. Along with Ser Whent and Lord Commander Hightower.” He hadn’t said that he and his companions had been the ones to kill them, but a look of betrayal still took over her face.

Tears began to run down her face. It only made him feel guiltier because he knew that her brother was alive and watching over his nephew. “Where is his body? What did you do with it?”

“There are cairns for the dead at the tower.”

His wording gave her pause. She looked at him now as though she could see through him. “Where are my brother’s bones?”

He leaned in close. He didn’t think people were listening, but this felt like something he had to whisper. This was a secret he wouldn’t be able to share again so he wasn’t going to let it accidently get out. “He has a cairn at the tower. There were no bones to bury.” His words are vague, but one the things that made him fall in love with Ashara was her intelligence and he desperately hoped she understood.

She starred at him, clenching and unclenching her hands around the sword’s scabbard. Her eyes scanned over his face, looking for something. It felt like an eternity before she took a deep breath. In this moment, he was grateful that Arthur had surrendered, because what he had said had been true. If he had killed Arthur he felt sure that Ashara would have soon followed. “Maybe it is for the best. My brother would have hated serving King Robert.”

He didn’t know what to say to that, so he just nodded. Ashara stood, with the sword still pressed tight against her chest. Her face was composed, but her tears still glimmered on her pale cheeks. “If that is all Lord Stark, I have other matters I must attend to.”

\---

When he came back, he came back to Howland carefully rocking Jon in his arms and Arthur looking like a new man. He was right about being identified by his notable objects and not his person. His, once shoulder length, hair was sheared down so that it was cropped close to his skull. The dual swords on his hips made him look dangerous in an entirely different way than his familial sword had. The armor he had hobbled together, mixed with the dirt he had covered himself in, made him look like the hedge knight he was claiming to be. His new appearance even made his violet eyes look darker and less distinctive.

The trip back to Winterfell was relatively uneventful. Howland was able to lead them down secluded and unknown paths which meant they rarely ran into anyone. The time they ran into bandits, Arthur proved that his dual swords were not just for show and that he was as fearsome a warrior as everyone claimed him to be. Again, Ned found himself grateful that Arthur had surrendered because he wasn’t sure he would have survived that fight.

Arthur had proven to be a quiet, but polite man. He rarely initiated conversations but would always respond when one of them started a conversation with him. In particular, he and Howland seemed to get along well. Arthur didn’t seem to mind Howland’s oddness and Howland appreciated Arthur’s politeness. Howland had taken to showing Arthur about hunting and fishing in exchange for Arthur telling him about parts of the world Howland had never seen before. By the time they closed in on the Neck, Arthur was a decent hunter and Howland could name more Dornish houses than most northmen.

Howland left their party once they reached the edge of the Neck. He had no business in Winterfell and, now that they were north, there were less dangers to be worried about. Once they were a day or two away from Winterfell, he pulled Arthur aside. He took him far enough from their camp that the wet nurse wouldn’t be able to hear them, but not far enough for her to become worried. “After today we will not speak of who you were nor of the events of the tower.”

“Of course, Lord Stark.”

“Not even to the boy when he becomes old enough to ask.”

This time Arthur hesitated for a moment. The hesitation was only noticeable because of how quickly he had responded to the previous statement. The pause only lasted a handful of seconds before he responded. “Yes, Lord Stark.”

An anxious part of him forced him to explain. “You know as well as I do that if anyone learned of his parentage he would never be safe.” A part of him felt cruel for phrasing it that way. When Ned had told Arthur about what had happened to Elia and her children the man had excused himself, eyes glistening with emotion. He had been gone for a good part of the day before returning. His previous weariness had been joined by a deep sadness that had persisted during their travels.

That sadness flared across his face. “I know.”

“I just… I just want the boy to be able to live.”


	6. Chapter Six - Winterfell 284 Ac

Arthur tried to keep a sharp eye on the two boys. The wet nurse had stepped out and had asked him to watch over them as they played. Jon had been crawling for about a month and Robb had just started crawling, so it took all his attention to make sure neither boy disappeared on his watch. He felt like the two had come to some unspoken agreement to race off in different directions whenever they had the chance. One moment they would be piling and then knocking over blocks and the next Jon would be crawling towards him and Robb would be crawling towards the door.

After the third time the boys tried their trick, he was ready to just pick them up and hold them in his arms until the nurse showed back up. Instead he sat the boys in the center of the room and sat with them, in the hopes that they would be too interested in him to race away. Robb took his close positioning as a chance to hand him all they blocks they were playing with. Jon, on the other hand, used his clothes as grips so he could stand in front of him.

They boys were so close in age they could have been twins. Jon had only been in Winterfell a week before Lady Catelyn and Robb had shown up. While the two may have been the same age, they looked nothing alike. Jon looked every bit a Stark, with his gray eyes and black unruly hair. Robb looked every bit his mother, with his dark red curls and bright blue eyes. There was no mistaking which babe was which. Ignoring their birth circumstances, the two seemed to get along well and he only hoped that would continue into their adulthood.

Jon began to slap Arthur’s cheek with one of his pudgy little hands, while the other remained closed tight around the color of his tunic. After enduring a couple of slaps, he moved his head out of Jon’s reach. The boy continued to swat at the air. His lower lip came out in a pout at the change. Jon almost toppled as he reached forward to hit him again, so Arthur let go of the block Robb had given him to steady the baby. The boy did hit him again when he looked up at the sound of the nursery door opening.

He straightened a bit at the sight of Lady Catelyn. Her eyes swept over the room before landing on the trio. He wondered if she couldn’t help the glare she shot Jon’s way or if she didn’t care about hiding her dislike in front of him. When Robb noticed her, her dropped his toys and reached toward her, babbling. She stepped forward and plucked Robb off the ground. She didn’t flinch as Robb grabbed fistfuls of her hair and pulled it towards him. Her voice was coolly demanding when she asked, “Where is the wet nurse?”

“She had to go see Maester Luwin and asked me to look over the boys.”

“When she comes back tell her I took Robb with me.”

“Yes, Lady Stark.”

She sent Jon one last dark look before leaving. The way she looked at him made him want to curl protectively over the boy. He had forgotten that the rest of the world was not as kind to bastards as Dorne was. The castle whispered all manner of theories about Jon’s parentage, with each whisper being more outlandish than the last. Any reminder of Jon’s bastard status was quick to send Lady Stark into a foul mood. Yet somehow the whispers and Lady Stark’s contempt died if Ned was present. It was obvious Ned loved his son and no one wanted to displease the new Lord Stark.

Jon let go of his color and his legs wobbled until they gave out and he fell back on his rump. He couldn’t help but laugh at Jon’s displeased grumbling. He wondered how anyone could resist being endeared by the boy. All babies were charming but there was something special about Jon’s easy temperament. He had grown to truly care for the baby and now it wasn’t just his vow to Lyanna that had him protecting the boy.

\---

While Ned had tasked him with his children’s safety, Ser Rodrik had asked him to spar with trainees whenever he had the time. Considering Jon and Robb were both babies who could barely stand on their own, he had a lot of time to spar. He was coming in late from the courtyard when Ned approached him. “Vorian.”

“Lord Stark.” It had taken a while to adjust to the new name, but he hadn’t had much of a choice. True to his word, Ned had not once called him Arthur after their arrival in Winterfell.

“If you would follow me.” Ned didn’t wait for him to answer. He just turned and walked away, confident he would follow. The warmth inside the castle was nice. He also hadn’t gotten used to the cold here but at least he didn’t have to sleep in the cold.

Ned walked him into his solar. He had been in this room twice before to talk with Ned. The first time had been about settling him down in the castle and the second time had been about how he was settling down. There hadn’t been any issues recently so he wondered what this could be about.

Ned settled in his seat and gestured to the seat across from him. He looked tired. He just sat there for a moment, rubbing at his temples. There was nothing to indicate what this conversation would be about. He wondered what was waiting for him and why it included him.

“Benjen is going to join the Night’s Watch.” That was surprising. If anything were to happen to Ned and Robb then Benjen would be Lord of Winterfell. By joining the Night’s Watch, Benjen would be giving up and claim to the lordship. He also gave up any claim to marriage or progenies. Or maybe it wasn’t that surprising. Benjen had helped Lyanna leave to join Rhaegar and it had led to tragedy.

Ignoring that, he would miss Benjen as a sparring partner. Benjen was a talented swordsman, one of the best Ser Rodrik paired him up against. Having him go would make his evenings much less interesting.

“I thought joining the Night’s Watch was respected up here?”

“It is.” Ned looked a little abashed. “It’s just… I’ve already lost so much of my family and this feels like losing one more.” He still doesn’t understand why Ned is telling him this. This seemed like something he should be confessing to his lady wife, not a man punished with living. Though maybe it was because he knew what had happened to Ned’s family. Maybe it was because he had already sworn himself to secrecy about Ned’s family matters.

“Are the brothers not allowed to come down from the Wall?”

“They are.”

“Then he is not lost. I have not known Benjen long, but he is a good man who loves his family. I think you could scorn him and he would still endure your presence to see his nephews. I’m sure you will see him every chance he gets.”

Ned only looked slightly reassured. He didn’t blame him, it had to be difficult adjusting after losing so much family so quickly. Since Ned hadn’t dismissed him yet he decided to take a risk. “If you don’t mind me asking, would you tell me about your brother?”

The request caught Ned off guard, but he was more than willing to oblige. Arthur spent the rest of his evening being regaled with stories about young Benjen Stark. Maybe the two hadn’t been the closest of brothers, but it was obvious in every word that Ned loved his brother.


	7. Chapter Seven - Braavos 288 AC

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We've finally gotten to the point where the chapter titles actually matter. I think I'm going to change chapter updates to Monday Thursday so that there isn't such a weird gap between chapters. Thanks for reading and even if I didn't respond to your comment know they made me super happy.

The day after Robert takes the throne, Jaime began hunting the remaining pyromancers. He has Rhaenys hide in his room and in two days’ time the deed is done. Aside from him, everyone who knew about the wildfire plot was dead. It had made his hunting simple, but the fact that no one had bothered to ask why he killed the king infuriated him. Their assumptions about him burned hot under his skin, but he tried to remain as unassuming as possible, for the princess’s sake.

Getting out of King’s landing took longer than he wanted, but without the Spider’s help he only had himself to rely on. Robert was mistrustful of Lord Varys and kept him under heavy watch, attempting to get any help from the man would be more risk than it was worth. With Stark gone people paid, laughingly, little attention to him. No one bothered him as he went on his business and no one questioned what he was doing. Ultimately, he got them out of King’s Landing with some hair dye, a sad story about a dead wife, and a couple more gold pieces than sea travel usually cost.

After the sack, many people who could leave King’s Landing had left King’s Landing. The day they had left he had feigned some illness and carefully rubbed some dye in his hair. After giving himself, roughly, the same jet, black hair as Rhaenys, he packed essentials and deceptively valuable objects in a trunk, and lead Rhaenys out of the keep through an underground tunnel Aerys had allowed the pyromancers to use. From there they made their way into the port where he feed some ship captain a sob story about wanting to escape the city after the death of his wife and they were off.

They had arrived in Braavos as Erwin Hill, his daughter Mara Sand, and a cat named Dread. He hadn’t really planned on going to Braavos, any of the Free Cities in Essos would have done, but now that they had been here for some time, he was glad for his choice. Not only did Rhaenys like Braavos, but the city’s cheer served her well in their early days. He quickly a job and home and Rhaenys had quickly made friends who helped lift her sadness.

It wasn’t until now, five years into their stay in Braavos, that his paranoia over their safety faded. Those early years he had kept Rhaenys by his side at all times and his ears sharp for anything suspicious. Now he felt comfortable enough to leave the princess alone for long parts of the day. There had been no news about Rhaenys other than her death. The only news he heard about himself involved his disappearance and his father’s bounty for his return. Alive. But he felt confident people wouldn’t recognize him, since he hadn’t left King’s Landing with any identifiable Lannister memorabilia, he had cut his hair short, and had grown a bread as soon as he could.

Rhaenys had turned out to be a much better behaved child than he had been; though, his childhood self hadn’t set the bar very high. She turned out to be polite, appropriately cautious, and followed direction well. Also, she, like his brother, had picked up letter and numbers like she was born for it. As much as he disliked reading and writing, it felt wrong not to pass the skill on to her. He had taken to spending some of their extra income on buying her books, paper, and ink.

She was currently reading a history about the Braavosi moonsingers. She insisted on reading books aloud to him, claiming that it was so he could correct her in case she said anything wrong, but secretly he thought it was because she liked telling him things. Rhaenys had proven to be infinitely curious and preened whenever he complimented or encouraged her curiosity.

He had been listening to her read, while also feeling Balerion bits of leftover fish, when she asked, “Uncle Jaime, could I learn how to water dance?” When he turned to look at her, Balerion took that as his opportunity to snatch the rest of the fish from his fingers and race off with his catch. He knew her well enough to recognize she was nervous. She was holding herself perfectly still in her chair, but the muscles in her hand jumped as she tensed and untensed her hand.

“Why do you want to learn how to water dance?”

He could tell she had already though about she was going to convince him based on how quickly she responded. “Well, I know you take care of me, but what if something happens and you aren’t there? I know if I ever feel like I’m in danger I should go find you, but in case I can’t I think it would be better if I could defend myself.”

He interrupted her by lazily raising his hand. She looked at him with her wide gemstone eyes, silently pleading that he would let her do this. “I meant, why do you want to learn how to water dance, specifically?”

She blinked at him, caught off guard by his question. “What?”

“Why water dancing and not the way of the Westerosi knight? You know I teach people how to fight with a longsword, so why pick water dancing?”

“Oh,” she fidgeted in her seat a bit before continuing, “I thought you would say no. I haven’t heard of any lady knight, but I have seen some lady bravos, so I thought maybe you would say yes to that.” She paused for a bit then said, “I also read, in one of the maester books, that ladies aren’t suited for being knight.”

“You are suited for whatever you train for. You may learn whichever you prefer.”

She mulled it over for a moment, she was rarely one to act without giving it a little thought. “Can I do both?”

He couldn’t help but grin at her. It seemed she was like him in ambition, if not impulsivity. “It will be difficult,” he warned.

She straightened her back, not one to be intimidated. “I want to do both.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

\---

She takes to fighting like a fish takes to water. During the day, she attends water dancing lessons with a bravos he is on good terms with and during the evening he trains her at home. She picks up water dancing faster than longsword training. She found herself more inclined toward the quick and focused movement of dancing over the strength and steadiness of the longsword. When he asked her if she wanted to stop knight training and focus solely on water dancing, she had slyly implied if he was asking because he didn’t think he could teach her.

So, she continues to train in both. She beams with pride at every success and burns with determination after any failure. He can honestly say that she is his best student. Not because of the speed she picks it up with, he’s had prodigy students and she isn’t one of them, but because of how much she wants it. She listens when he corrects her. She knows when to think and when to let instinct take over. She practices even when she is decent at the moves.

Once she gets more confident, they begin to spar. It’s slow going at first, drills aren’t the same as facing off against a person. She falls for feints too easily and her guard is weak. If they had been training the way his master-at-arms had trained him, she would have been littered with bruises. She still gets bruises, no matter how gentle he is there is no way to avoid them, just minimize them.

In all other circumstances, Rhaenys is a mild-mannered girl, but when they spar a fierceness comes over her. As she gets better with each style her fighting reflects that. With water dancing, her steps are precise and calculated. She moves exactly as much as she needs to and doesn’t waste her time on a thrust she doesn’t think will hit. With a longsword, she is patient and punishing. She waits until her opponent’s guard is broken before buffeting them with hits, making sure they can’t recover. But the real magic happened when she decided to mix styles.

When he first suggested it, her efforts hadn’t amounted to much. She had complained about the styles being too different to mesh. It wasn’t until he took her to one of his matches that she started to have her breakthrough. He made the majority of their livelihood by teaching curious Braavosi the ways of the Westerosi knight, but he also made some extra money by engaging in some _competitive brawling_. There was a tavern near Ragman’s Harbor that would put on non-lethal duels for gamblers. Whenever he felt short on money, he would go in and get a cut of what people bet on him. Rhaenys had insisted on going with him once and while the organizer had berated him for bring his daughter to watch him get beat, he promised to make sure she was safe. He couldn’t resist snarking back that he had brought his daughter to watch him win.

He had won, but it seemed that watching a knight and a water dancer fight had inspired Rhaenys. She began to piece together how the two fighting styles could go together. When fighting with a longsword, she learned to blend strength with precision. When fighting with a slender sword, she combined her calculated moves with punishing ripostes. Eventually, she learned how to switch between her custom styles by just changing her stance.

While talented, she was still little and inexperienced. She had developed her own custom styles, and he could see potential in them, but she still had trouble executing them in combat. She would trip over her feet trying to switch stances. Sometimes she over extended or used too much energy on a fruitless endeavor. But when she did realize what she wanted to accomplish, it was like magic. If he wanted to be poetic about it, it was like watching a dragon dance.


	8. Chapter Eight - Winterfell 290 AC

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter count has changed because I mislabeled the chapters. I said earlier I might continue this into something longer, but if I do it it will be another fic not me adding onto this one.

A part of Arthur hated Theon Greyjoy. He was aware that it was cruel to hate a ten-year-old, but he despised how Ned’s ward treated Jon. Ned had insisted on treating Theon’s stay here as a fosterage, instead of the hostage situation it actually was, which meant that Theon joined the Stark children in their everyday life. Theon mostly ignored baby Arya, was respectful to toddler Sansa, and very friendly with Robb; but, was the boy repeatedly pointed out to Jon, they were Starks and he was not. Theon wasn’t overtly mean to Jon, he would be able to do something if that were the case, instead the boy was mostly dismissive.

The difference in how Theon treated Robb and Jon was like the difference between night and day. While Theon would purposely seek out Robb, he would ignore Jon, even if the boy was already there. He would overload Robb with praise over even the slightest of achievements and overlook any of Jon’s successes. While Robb tried to include both boys in his mischief, Theon frequently encouraged him to go on without Jon. All this and more was starting to take its toll on Jon.

When Ned found out about the rumors people had spread about Jon’s parentage, he put an immediate stop to them. But stopping the rumors didn’t make Lady Catelyn like Jon. It may have tempered her scorn, but her disdain cut Jon just as deeply. Catelyn’s disdain, Theon’s disinterest, and the castle’s general suspicion chipped at Jon. The happy baby he had once been gave way to a serious child.

As much as Ned wanted to protect his nephew, there was only so much he could do and his influence was limited by how much he knew. He knew Ned to be a loving and caring man, but not a particularly perceptive one. And he had an even hard time trying to notice something that everyone tried so hard to hide from him. Everyone was courteous to Jon in Ned’s presence and Jon wanted to impress Ned so much that he hid any malcontent from the man. He felt like he was the only person who noticed how much Jon struggled.

He was walking around the castle grounds when he heard a quiet sniffling. He followed the noise into the armory. When he stepped into the room the sound quickly stopped. It took him a moment to find the source of the sound, as he moved items around pretending to be looking for something instead of someone, but when he did he felt his heart clench. Tucked away, near the back of the armory, was Jon. His knees were pressed tight against his chest, face red and splotchy, with tears shining in his eyes. Jon seemed embarrassed at being caught. The boy roughly rubbed his sleeve against his eyes and tried to look composed.

“Jon, what are you doing back here?”

“Nothing!” It’s hard to believe him with how defensive he sounds, but Arthur doesn’t think pushing will get him very far. “Why are you here?”

“I was looking for something. If you don’t mind, could you help me find an oilstone? I worry my blade is getting dull.”

“I know where it is.”

Jon uncurls and begins to move around the room. Jon quickly finds what he asked for and hurries over with it. “Thank you, Jon.” He makes a show of unsheathing one of his blades and begins to sharpen it. Jon settles down next to him, watching the rhythmic pattern of him dragging the blade against the stone. The blade doesn’t need sharpening, but if it gets Jon to talk to him he’ll grind the sword into dust.

After a while of sitting in silence, Jon pipes up. “Vorian?”

“Yes, Jon?”

“You’re a,” the boy paused for a second, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to continue. “You’re a bastard, right?”

“I am.” The lie came easy now; though, all lies came easy to him.

“And you’re… people respect you, don’t they?”

“I believe they do. Do you respect me?”

Jon seems shocked that he’d turn the question on him like that. He trips over himself to say, “Of course I do!”

He can’t help but chuckle at Jon’s haste. “Then I have all the respect I need.”

It takes a second for Jon to understand what he means, but when he does the boy glows with pride. It speaks to how starved for affection the boy is, that such a simple statement makes him so happy. Or maybe he means more to the boy than he had realized. They sit quietly again, with the only sound coming from his blade sliding against the stone.

Eventually, he asks, “Why did you ask me if I was a bastard?”

Jon fidgets in his seat. The boy steadies himself with a deep breath before saying, “I was playing with Robb earlier. We go outside and pretend to be heroes crossing swords. I… I said I was the Lord of Winterfell and Robb said I couldn’t be. Because I am a bastard.”

Robb and Jon were as thick as thieves, but sometimes Robb had his father’s obliviousness. “Do you want to be Lord of Winterfell?”

Jon blinked at him, like he hadn’t considered the question. “I don’t know,” he mumbled.

There was petulance in his answer. Jon had thought about being Lord of Winterfell, but didn’t want to talk to him about it. He wouldn’t badger the boy if he didn’t want to talk. “What other heroes do you pretend to be?”

“I pretend to be Aemon the Dragonknight and Ser Ryam Redwyne.”

“Two impressive men. Both of them Kingsguard. Would you like to know something?” Jon bobbed his head. “A man doesn’t need to be trueborn to be Kingsguard. Ser Robert Flowers and Ser Addison Hill were both bastards and they both became Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.”

Jon looked at him with wide eyes. “Really? How do you know that?”

He knew because he had read of them in the White Book, back when he had been a part of the Kingsguard. On a whim, and because Lord Commander Hightower had been heavily hinting that he may one day be Lord Commander, had sat down and read a number of the entries in the book. But he couldn’t tell Jon that. He was no longer the Sword of the Morning, Arthur Dayne, he was a man sworn to protect Ned Stark’s children, Vorian Sand. Think of Ned reminded him of what he had told him at the tower. “Every boy dreams of being Kingsguard at some point in his life.”

“You dreamed of being Kingsguard?”

“I did.” I was.

“What,” the boy flushed a deep crimson and stammered for a moment.

Arthur could already guess what the boy was going to ask, “What happened to that dream?” Jon nodded aggressively, still red in the face. “I guess I realized that there were other honorable tasks to be done.” And that being Kingsguard wasn’t always honorable.

Jon spoke up shyly, “Do you really think I could be Kingsguard?”

“I think you could. But remember Jon, there are other honorable jobs in the world.”

Arthur wasn’t sure if Jon had really heard him. His words of faith seemed to lift the boy’s spirits and he began to almost buzz with energy. “Vorian, can you practice with me?” Jon began to tug at his cloak, eager to get outside.

“Of course, Jon.”


	9. Chapter Nine - Volantis 291 AC

One day, Rhaenys had woken up from a nap and had told him that they had to go to Volantis. She had looked at him with her shining violet eyes and he recognized that this wasn’t a request. The princess had experienced a premonition and it seemed that they had to make their way toward Volantis. It took a while for them to reach the city. Ignoring the travel itself they had business to resolve in Braavos, but they got there none the less.

They had been in Volantis a month and he felt safe in saying that they both hated it. The place reeked of something he couldn’t describe. It was constantly hot and humid and walking anywhere felt like wading through a bog. They ended every day drenched in sweat and irritable. He felt like he had taken more baths here, trying to feel clean, than he had ever taken in his whole life. They had filled their inn room with incense in an attempt to escape the smell, but it only did so much.

He was even willing to say that Balerion also hated this terrible city. In Braavos, Balerion would wander around the city and do whatever cats do on the street. Here Balerion had barely left Rhaenys’s side. Twice the cat had jumped into the bath with him, so they had just started bathing him. Every once in a while, the cat would reject something they offered him, so they would toss that food and go find something else to eat. If Balerion wouldn’t eat it, then maybe they shouldn’t eat it either.

He had gotten dock work at Rhaenys’s suggestion, which he also hated. There was no finesse to the work. Nothing to take pride in. All he did was lug crates on and off ships. Anyone with enough muscle could do this job, but he had to do something.

He hadn’t asked Rhaenys about the premonition she had. She also hadn’t mentioned what she had seen aside from Volantis and the docks. It wasn’t until one frustrating day at the docks that he finally had cracked.

They had been sitting around their second dinner, their first had been thrown away after Balerion had knocked it onto the floor and refused to touch it afterward, trying their hardest to be civil. There had been a series of accidents at the docks, so he had to deal with being yelled at by dock masters and the paranoia that he may get hurt. Rhaenys was beginning to go stir crazy in their inn room. Being alone in the city terrified her and she was running out of things to do in their room. On top of that, the air had remained hot and muggy even though the sun had gone down a while ago.

“What are we doing here?” He felt ridiculous snapping at an eleven-year-old girl over a meal of crab and soup. The look Rhaenys sent him made him feel simultaneously worse and more irritated. He was tired and they both hated this gods forsaken city, so why were they still here?

“Waiting.” He felt his eyebrow twitch, entirely without his consent.

“And what are we waiting for?”

This question humbled her a bit. She looked down and began to fiddle with her food. “I don’t know.”

That made him feel even worse. He took a breath and consciously gentled his voice, “What do you know?”

Rhaenys scrunched her brow. As she thought she sneaked Balerion a piece of crab. He didn’t know why she was sneaking him food, he didn’t care if she fed the cat table scraps. “I don’t remember much. I remember Volantis and a ship, but I don’t remember what the ship is called. I think we’ll get something here and the things will be useful, but also sad.”

That made no sense to him, but he could tell that Rhaenys was trying her best to describe what she saw. He didn’t say anything after hat. Partly because he recognized that further questioning wouldn’t get him anywhere, but mostly he felt bad for being curt with her.

They ate in silence for a bit. Both of them picking at their dinner awkwardly. He could feel Rhaenys’s eyes on him as she snuck glances at him from across the table. He had never been rude to her, he had made a point to treat her as best he could. He remembered what their father’s cruelty had done to Tyrion and he refused to so the same to the princess. His shame kept him from meeting her eye.

Eventually, Rhaenys spoke up. Voice shy and quiet, “Uncle Jaime?”

“Yes, princess?” His voice sounded abashed. He cleared his throat to try and get rid of the sound.

“Where should we go after this?”  
“Where would you like to go?”

“Well,” and she drags out the word as she thinks. “We could go back to Braavos. Or we could go to one of the other Free Cities, maybe Pentos or Myr?”

“We should avoid Pentos.” If he remembered correctly, his father had mentioned Varys having come from Pentos. Since no one had approached them, he felt it safe to assume that Varys didn’t know where they were. The eunuch may have known that Rhaenys survived the sack, and likely knew that they had left King’s Landing together, but he didn’t trust the man enough to inform him about the princess’s continued existence. He would try and keep their survival a secret from Varys for as long as possible.

“So no to Pentos, but we could still go to Myr.” Rhaenys stopped briefly to drink some of her soup. The girl hadn’t flinched at the spice of the soup and had even complained about its mildness earlier in the meal. “We don’t have to stay in Essos. Maybe we could go to the Summer Isles?”

“And why those places?”

“They’re both close to Dorne and we’ll have to go there someday.” It was startling how she said that with so much certainty. She was probably right, they couldn’t avoid Dorne forever.

“Lys and Tyrosh are even closer, but you didn’t suggest either of those.”

“I fear those places will be too much like here and I don’t like it here.” An understatement he didn’t bother addressing.

“We can decide when we are done here.”

\---

It was a week after that conversation that something of note happened. Jaime wasn’t one for gossip, but it was hard to avoid in his current line of work. On the docks, there was little to talk about that wasn’t gossip; so, when there was word that there was a man planning to travel to Valyria, that word spread fast.

That day that madman was all he heard about. About how a Westerosi planned to sail through the Smoking Sea to reach Valyria. How the man’s crew had deserted him when his plans came to light. How the man was searching for anyone who would go with him. How anyone willing to join him, not only had a death wish, but a violent death wish. How the man had been forced to buy slaves to try and fulfil his quest.

He passed his day harried, but untroubled, until he was tasked with loading up a ship by the name of _Laughing Lion_. The name wasn’t familiar, but the Lannisters were the only lions he knew of. He made his way to the ship hoping there was no one on board who would recognize him.

The task was simple, though honestly it always was. The ship was in need of more provisions and he, with a couple of others, were tasked with loading those provisions. The ship’s red sails made him grow anxious, but he kept his mouth shut and worked as quickly as he could. He kept his head down as he moved thinking, hoping, that if he ignored his surroundings then they would ignore him. His strategy worked pretty well. The work went fast and nobody paid him any mind.

At least it was going well until the ship captain called him over. It only takes him a matter of seconds to recognize his uncle Gerion. His uncle looked older than when he last saw him, with more crinkles around his eyes than before, but there was no mistaking him. Gerion wasn’t looking directly at him but it would only be a matter of time before he was recognized, if he wasn’t already.

“Tell me, how much longer ‘til the ship is fully provisioned?”

“Not much longer m’lord. Less than an hour or so and we’ll be out of your way.” He didn’t bother trying to pitch his voice lower. If time hadn’t done the job for him, then there was little chance he could do a convincing job.

His uncle hummed his understanding. As much as he wanted to walk away, it would draw more suspicion to walk away before he was dismissed. He had to fight the urge to fidget when his uncle turned to look at him. “And what is your name?” He didn’t miss the way his uncle focused on his face.

“Erwin, m’lord”

“Erwin Hill?”

“So, I’ve been told. I never knew my father.”

His uncle huffed, “Apparently being away has made you a better liar.” _It wasn’t a lie,_ a part of him whispered, _he had never truly known his father, but the sack had showed him._

“I don’t know what you mean m’lord.” It was only through sheer force of will that his voice didn’t waver.

His uncle turned to look at him fully. Gerion seemed amused, his favorite uncle had always been fond of japes. “Boy, it’s been almost a decade, but I would be hard pressed to forget you.” He paused, waiting to see how Jaime would react, then whispered, “Your brother misses you.”

Leaving his brother behind had been one of the few things he regretted about leaving Westeros, but he hadn’t had a choice. “My brother should think me dead,” he whispered back.

“Maybe, but he doesn’t. No one does, your father refuses to allow it.” His uncle leaned in close for the next bit, “You could go home.”

“Home to what? What would I find of worth there?”

“You were pardoned for your… crime. Your sister had married the king. You could live a rich and luxurious life.”

Once, the lure of being able to live his life with Cersei would have been enough to tempt him to endure anything. “I would live a life filled with people whispering behind my back of my dishonor. A couple brave ones may even say it to my face.”

“And what honor do you find living here?” He didn’t know how to respond to that. It seemed his uncle had seen something in his face because he asks, “Why do you stay here?”

He still didn’t know what to say and staying silent too long would strike his uncle as suspicious. He ends up telling his uncle a half truth, “I have a daughter here.”

His uncle looked at him in a way that could only be described as sympathetic. “You could take her too. Your father would forgive you anything.”

“Maybe he would, but not Dorne. She’s also the daughter of a highborn Dornish woman and Dorne isn’t particularly happy with the Lannisters.”

Gerion let out a low whistle. “only you boy. Only you.”

They stood there for a moment in silence, watching as the crew prepared the ship for voyage. The men he had been working with were almost done loading the ship. His uncle’s men were doing whatever sailor do to prepare. Though, what caught his eye was the men currently boarding the ship. They filed onto the ship in two lines and it took him a moment to realize what they were.

They were all men with the same wind-beaten brow. They looked sturdy and capable, like men who had known the seas their whole lives. Then one of the men looked up and he had the horrible realization that his thought was probably true. The man had a tattoo on his cheek showcasing his slave status.

The day’s gossip came roaring to the front of his mind. The Westerosi heading to Valyria. The captain who had lost half his crew and had resorted to buying slaves. Gerion was that madman.

“You’re the man heading to Valyria.”

His uncle gave him a sidelong look. “How do you know about that?”

“Everyone won’t shut up about you.” His uncle opened his mouth to say something, but he cut him off. “You can’t seriously be going there.

“I am. What of it?”

“What of it,” his voice was hushed but sharp, “whatever is still in Valyria was enough to take down a dragon and you want to go there!”

“That was long ago. Surely, whatever was there before is dead now.”

“And what if it isn’t?”

“Then I will find out.” This time his uncle interrupted him, raising his hand before the words could leave his mouth. “Say what you want boy, but I am going. Just like you can’t go home neither can I.”

He would remember this moment as bittersweet. He had never gotten the chance to safe farewell to someone he cared about before they died. But in this moment, there were too many witnesses and he couldn’t not risk being too friendly with his uncle. He was well aware that this would be the last time his would see his uncle, yet all he could do was say, “I wish you well on your travels,” and then he left the ship.

\---

When a package showed up at their inn addressed to them, Jaime was reasonably suspicious, regardless of what Rhaenys said to the contrary. People knew his alias, but none of the people who knew it had enough capital to be sending them trunks heavy with something. Yet it didn’t change the fact that the trunk was to be delivered to Erwin Hill and his daughter.

He carried the simple wooden box to their room and sent Rhaenys to stand as far from the thing as she could. The princess grumbled, but picked up Balerion and sat with him on her bed across the room. Ad he goes to open the trunk, he does it slowly and with a dagger in hand.

There was nothing terribly suspicious when he first opens the thing. The chest seemed to be tightly packed with all sorts of items. He sees trinkets and jewelry and pottery and other metalwork. He carefully sifts through the items, but only finds the random assortment of valuables.

The trunk strikes him as shallower than it should be, so he begins to set all the items on the floor next to him. Rhaenys complains about wanting to see what he’s looking at, but dutifully stays on the bed. Once all the items are on the floor, he investigates the box in earnest. It doesn’t take him long to notice that the bottom is a false bottom.

Pulling out the bottom exposes a lot of black fabric. The fabric doesn’t look special, just something to pad whatever was down there. Unraveling it reveals a large black rock. Or he thought it was a rock until he pulls it out. The object is texture with a consistent pattern of slight ridges and dips. When he holds it to the light, golden freckles shine on the black surface. The ridges turn out to be scales. He shares a look with Rhaenys. She is just as awed as he is and, while he isn’t sure if he believes it to be real, there is no denying that the thing looks like a dragon egg.

He gestures to Rhaenys with the egg and she scurries off the bed to take the thing from him. Balerion has shifted to drape himself around the princess’s neck, leaving her hands free to take the egg. Her eyes are wide as she turns the thing in her hands. Even Balerion seems intrigued as he stretches his paw out to touch it.

“It’s warm,” she says. The thing had definitely been cold when he had held it, so he had no idea what to do with that information.

He turns back to the box while she further examines the egg. He pulls out the other, and seemingly, last bundle. It’s obvious from the shape of the object that it’s a sword. Unwrapping it reveals a simple scabbard, but the thing that catches his eye is the golden lion-head pommel. He half-draws the sword and is awed by the dark smoke color of the blade. He is sure that this blade is Brightroar, the Lannister family ancestral sword.

Rhaenys’s voice draws his attention, “There’s a note on the floor.” On the floor under him there is a scrap of paper. He thinks the paper may have been wrapped up with Brightroar. The note is dirty and spotted with, what he is sure is, blood.

He doesn’t read it immediately after unfolding it. Instead he runs his fingers over the wax seal. Pressed into the wax is his family’s sigil. The Lannister lion is exactly how he remembers it. It is enough to tell him who the trunk is from.

All the note says is “ _you were right_ ” in his uncle’s hand. Rhaenys’s premonition had come true; their bittersweet gifts had arrived.

“We should start packing. We no longer have reason to stay here.”

“Where will we go?”

“I think the Summer Isles will be best.” He felt it best that they get far from Westeros.


	10. Chapter Ten - Winterfell 294 AC

Sometimes, little Arya Stark reminded him so much of her aunt it hurt. He hadn’t known Lyanna long, but he had known her long enough to grow fond of her. This knowledge was made even harder by the fact that he couldn’t say anything about the subject. Every once and a while Ned would call him into his solar and they would quietly talk about those similarities, but outside of that he could never say anything. How was he supposed to talk about a woman he wasn’t supposed to know?

Even at five years the girl could be a menace. She loved everything she was supposed to hate and hated everything her septa wanted her to love. If given the chance she would race around Winterfell and befriend everyone she came across. She was also more interested in fighting than some men he had known. Arya would sneak into the courtyard just to watch men spar. He had frequently seen her pick up a stick and practice the moves she had seen in the courtyard. He never said anything when he saw the girl practice; the girl was aware that it was something she wasn’t supposed to be doing and was wary of anyone noticing her practice.

Though, really the girl could be described as wary in general. Arya always seemed ready to fight at a moment’s notice, not just for herself but also for those she liked. He had never met a child with such a strong sense of justice. She despised abuse of power and lies almost as much as her lord father. Of all of Ned’s current children, she was the most like him. Maybe the new babe on the way would usurp her, but he doubted it.

The Stark children had an interesting relationship. Robb was friends with Jon, but never seemed to notice how he hurt him, he was polite with Sansa, and never missed a chance to smile at his younger sister. Sansa was courteous with Robb, quarreled constantly with Arya, and never missed an opportunity to remind Jon that they weren’t siblings but half-siblings. Arya loved Jon and Robb, in that order, and seemed to resent Sansa. Every one of them loved Bran, but Bran was a toddler and few could resist the charm of well-mannered toddlers.

Sansa and Arya’s rivalry confused him. He could have sworn his sisters had never fought as much as these two did, but maybe it was the age difference. There had been a little over a decade difference between Ashara and Allyria and only a three year difference between Arya and Sansa. Ned had once said that the girls were as different as the sun and the moon and it showed, not just in their appearance but also in their behavior. He had gotten used to listening to the girls argue; Sansa with her snide remarks and Arya with her aggressive retorts. That also meant that he had gotten used to listening to people reprimand the girls. In particular, Septa Mordane like making a scene when Arya displeased her, because it was always Arya who bothered her.

Today seemed to be one of those days. He had been walking through the halls when he heard the scampering of feet. He turned the corner just in time to see Arya dart into the empty dining hall. Behind her, far enough that she hadn’t she hadn’t seen were she went, was Septa Mordane, red in the face and upset. “Did you see where Arya went?”

“No septa, I must have just missed her.” She didn’t question him, she just storms off down the hall. He waits a moment before heading into the dining hall.

He doesn’t see Arya right away. The tables and benches look undisturbed, so he doesn’t bother looking under them. Even if he had an idea where she went, Arya was a small girl and could press herself into shadows like she belonged them. Instead he called out, “Arya, you can come out now,” loud enough for her to hear, but soft enough to not call unnecessary attention.

There was a shuffling sound before Arya crawled out from under a table. Her eyes were red and her cheeks splotchy from crying. She walked over to him with her head hanging low, like she expected him to scold her. He kneeled in front of her and tried to catch her eye, but even then, she turned away and sniffled. “What’s the matter Arya? Why did you run from your septa?”

She ran her sleeve against her eyes and nose, “Septa Mordane is mean and I don’t like her.”

He couldn’t argue with that. The septa seemed to have no idea how to handle a wily child such as Arya. “And what was she being mean about?”

“About my needlework being terrible! I know my stitches are crooked! And that I’m not supposed to bleed on the fabric, but how am I supposed to stop it when I don’t know where it’s coming from! I’m not good at it! She complains about my work and then points out how nice Sansa’s work is! I don’t know why I’m not more like Sansa but I don’t want to be like her anyway!”

Any meekness in Arya melted away during her rant. She looked at him straight backed and with fire in her eye. He didn’t think Arya would never be the lady everyone wanted her to be and it was a shame that no one else seemed to realize that. Still, Arya would have to face her septa soon and Mordane wasn’t likely to stop trying to turn Arya into a proper lady.

“How about we make a deal,” Arya couldn’t help the intrigue that crossed over her face. “You go back to your needlework and apologize to Septa Mordane,” she immediately looked betrayed, “and in exchange I will teach you some archery at night.”

She looked at him warily and, honestly, she expected nothing less. “Every night?”

“No. That would be too noticeable and you need your sleep. How about twice a week, assuming you attend your needlework lessons.”

“And you won’t tell anyone?”

He raises his hand and presses it over his heart, “And I won’t tell anyone.”

She scans his face for a moment, likely trying to see if he is lying. Eventually she gives a satisfied nod and sticks out her hand, “Deal.”

“Deal,” he says and shakes her hand.

\---

They had had a close call early on. Arya had attempted to do some practice without him after someone else had left their bow in the courtyard. She told him she had been practicing with only one arrow and that she had to retrieve her single arrow after every shot. That she had missed her target a countless number of times, before she finally hit the bullseye. She looked misty-eyed when she recounted how her father had surprised her by clapping at her success.

They train for a month and a half before anyone else intrudes on their archery practice. He had been running late for their practice. Maester Luwin had asked him for assistance moving something from his turret to the library when he had been making his way to the courtyard.

Once he can make his way to the yard, the moon was high in the sky and he is much later than he would like to be. He begins to hear muffled talk as he gets closer. He keeps his step steady and hopes he hadn’t got Arya in trouble.

He loses all concern when he sees who is in the courtyard with her. Jon is standing behind Arya trying to help her aim her shot. And he’s not doing a great job at it, considering when Arya looses her arrow it goes wildly off target. Arya harrumphs despondently and notches another arrow.

He wasn’t trying to be stealthy, but neither of the children notice him until he gets close. Jon jumps and curses once he notices him. His reaction startles Arya, who turns and looses her arrow at him. He’s thankful for her lack of practice as the arrow buries itself into the ground about a foot in front of him.

Arya shoots him a guilty look and he is unsure if it’s because she almost hit him or because she had broken their agreement. After her father had caught her, they had agreed that she wouldn’t practice without him there. Jon catches sight of the look on her face and places his hand on her head. “It’s alright, Vorian won’t tell anyone.”

Arya gives Jon an unimpressed look, but he doesn’t seem to catch it. He steps forward and pulls the arrow from the ground. He inspects it and, when he sees that it isn’t too damaged, hands it back to Arya. “Nock it again.”

Arya shoots him a grin and Jon looks smugly proud. Arya turns to face the target and gets in position. He crouches next to her and adjusts her stance. Once he’s satisfied, he puts his hands on her shoulders and says, “Aim now and don’t draw until you are ready to loose.” She nods her assent, so he takes his hands off her shoulders and gets back. She takes a second before drawing and loosing her arrow. Jon whoops when the arrow sinks into the center of the target. Arya lets out a laugh and turns to them glowing with pride.

They continue for another hour or so before heading to bed. They never officially tell Jon about the lessons, but he attends them more often than not. Some sessions are full of laughter and persistent chatting. Others are quiet and focused. There are a few, more often than her would like, that aren’t actually lessons, but an excuse to spend private time with someone who doesn’t expect something of them. That was never his intention for these lessons, but he is more than happy to give these children some refuge from the unyielding judgement of others.


	11. Chapter Eleven - Myr 297 AC

Rhaenys loved Myr. Not like she loved Braavos, but she loved this city all the same. He was sure it had to do with the libraries. Myr prided itself in being a learned city and a reservoir of knowledge, so Rhaenys had wasted no time in trying to get inside one of the libraries. She was able to get an apprenticeship, which did give her access to some, not just one, of those libraries. She would spend all day in those building if she could; flipping through tome after tome, greedy for the secrets they hid.

Every day she came home and regaled him about what she had read and every day she informed him about something different. Some days he would hear about the Free Cities’ history, the next it would some maester’s theories about illness and disease, and then the next it would be a mummer’s play that had been penned into the pamphlet. Her passion made even the dullest topic bearable and he found himself eager to hear what she would tell him next.

After they ate, and she told him everything she had learned, she would alternate between practicing her swordsmanship and her archery. She had picked archery up during their stay in the Summer Isles. She had been charming enough to find her own tutor, a tall, elegant woman who had insisted Rhaenys use gloves and oils to keep her hands soft. That oddness aside, the woman had been a good teacher. Using a bow took a special kind of arm strength, so the woman ensured Rhaenys had a handle on the basics before pushing her. Her tutor hadn’t had the chance to push Rhaenys in the year they were there, but had given her sufficient instruction so that she could continue alone.

He had found a piece of property large enough to accommodate her practice. His uncle’s final gift had left them with an impressive amount of gold, even after buying this home they had more than enough money for their wants and necessities. So Rhaenys got a courtyard so that she could practice archery and he got to relax for the time they spent in Myr. Early in their stay here Rhaenys had woken up and said they wouldn’t stay here long, so he decided to spend in days in leisure and only take temporary jobs that appealed him.

Today, he had spent the day strolling through Myr. The city was pleasing enough and he felt like there was always something new to be found. Today he had found a place that claimed to serve Dornish food. He had never been to Dorne, and had never had a taste of their food, but the things he found resembled the food Elia had described to him when she was feeling nostalgic. A pale white soup with slices of lemon floating in the broth, bright red meat on an upright spit that the servers carved meat from, peppers stuffed with cheese and vegetables, fresh shellfish served in its shell, bundles of something wrapped in palm, grape, or corn leaves, another white soup filled with odd textured chunks, and so much more.

They must have done well for themselves to be able to display so much food. The stand was in constant bustle as servers rushed to give buyers their food. He walked around the market until the crowd around the stand died down. If the woman who served him was Dornish, and maybe she wasn’t, he suspected she could have been a Stony Dornishwoman. Her brown hair was pulled back and away from her face. Her skin was fair except from where it had been permanently splotched and freckled by the sun. Once Elia had joked that Ser Arthur was lucky he was one of the few Stony Dornish who tanned instead of burned, and now he thinks he understood what she meant.

After asking the woman what she would recommend, she sent him off with meat cut from the spit, slivers of flat round bread made from corn, and a jar of milk-rice drink that she insisted he drink chilled, if he could. The food was well priced and, if it tasted as well as it smelled, he was sure he’d be back here again.

He kept his walk back to their home brisk. Rhaenys would likely be waiting for him so they could eat together. Neither of them had become particularly skilled cooks, so they usually tried the different foods present in the city.

When he got home, he found Rhaenys curled in a chair, holding Balerion. Violet and gold eyes tracked his walk towards the table. He had long gotten used to the heaviness of their gazes. Though It did startle him sometimes, how such a frisky cat and such a curious girl could become so serious. “Hello,” and with that it was gone, Balerion stretched to see what he was holding and Rhaenys chirped a hello back.

He spread their meal across the table. Everything was still roughly the temperature it should have been once they start eating. Rhaenys liked all the food, the drink being her favorite, but she was also strangely quiet. Usually dinner would be when she would tell him all about the things she had read. Today, she seemed to be pensive.

He wondered if she should ask her what was bothering her. Sometimes he would ask and she would clench her jaw, as if to physically keep her thoughts at bay. Other times he wouldn’t say anything, but after some time she would spill her concerns to him. He could rarely tell the difference between the mood and he definitely had no idea which one she was in now. It seemed to be the latter since, before he had the chance to make a decision, Rhaenys spoke up. “Uncle Jaime, what do you know of my namesakes?”

He though back to the dragon stories his brother had loved and the war stories he himself had loved. “Queen Rhaenys was one of Aegon the Conqueror’s sister wives. She rode on the dragon Meraxes, bigger than Vhagar but smaller than Balerion.” At the mention of his name, the cat looked up. He rubbed his temples as he tried to remember more. “She helped Baratheon take Storm’s End and she, along with her siblings, took the Reach and the westerlands. She and her dragon died in Dorne during the conquest.”

Rhaenys nodded. If he had to guess, he would say that she had learned about the Targaryen dynasty today. She didn’t really react to what he had said and he felt like he hadn’t given her what she was looking for. “That was Rhaenys the first. What about the second?”

This one took more thought. Queen Rhaenys had been easy, everyone knew at least a little about Aegon and his sister wives, but he didn’t he didn’t know much about the second and whatever he did know had been learned long ago. “I believe she also had a dragon. And was killed during the Dance of the Dragons.”

“She did have a dragon. Meleys, the Red Queen. And she did die during the dance. Do you know what they called her?”  
“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“They called her the Queen Who Never Was. Three times she and her family were passed over for someone else and eventually she died trying to seat someone else on the throne.”

Rhaenys grew solemn and serious. Something about this upset her but he couldn’t figure out what. Instead of agonizing over what was bothering her, he just said, “What’s bothering you, princess?”

“I have the best claim to the Iron Throne. Better that Viserys or his sister. Better than any Baratheon. Even if they pass over me and pick Viserys, he won’t last long. He was more like his father than anyone cared to admit and the realm already knows the danger of a mad king. If people know who I am they will know this, maybe not Viserys’s madness but that I have the better claim.”

“What are you getting at?”

“What if I don’t want it?” What if I don’t want to sit on the Iron Throne?” Her eyes were bright and shining in the firelight. He knew she didn’t want to sit on the throne. He still remembers how he used to hold her after the nightmares. Nightmares where she said the Iron Throne would close around her and consume her. How he would have to convince her that it was a nightmare and not a premonition. He wonders if she had stopped having those dreams or if she had just stopped telling him about them.

“Then you won’t sit on it.”

She doesn’t look convinced. “Even if I don’t sit on it, both my namesakes died for that throne. The first died so that Aegon could rule the Seven Kingdoms like he wanted and the second died so that her gooddaughter could sit on the throne for half a year.”

“Both had dragons and were fighting other people’s wars. Even if your egg hatches, all you have to do is make sure you don’t end up fighting someone else’s war.”

“You make it sound easy.”

He reached over the table to hold her hand. He remembered a time when his hand would have engulfed all of hers, now her hand was still smaller than his but just slightly. He had the bitter thought that he had been the only one by her side for most of her life. He wasn’t sure if acknowledging Balerion made the thought worse. “Life and death decisions are rarely easy, but we can do our best to try and avoid having to make them. Besides you have something neither of your namesakes had.”

“And what’s that?”

He felt the arrogance he had been known for flow through him. She shot her an unabashed grin when he said, “You have me.”

Her laugh hadn’t changed much. It still had the same twinkling sound it had had in her youth. She had tossed her head back to laugh and, as she turned back to look at him, she turned her hand over so she could squeeze his. The grin they shared made him feel invincible. If the throne tried to eat her, it would have to take him first.


	12. Chapter Twelve - Winterfell 297 Ac

Sometimes he wondered if Ned had so many children because he was making up for all the family he had lost. He could think of no other reason why the man would have five children; though, technically, everyone thought Ned had six children, but that was beside the point. As the man entrusted with watching over the children, he felt like he had the authority to say that Ned had too many children. His days were filled with trying to keep track of all the Starks and trying to make sure they weren’t doing something they shouldn’t be doing.

He had to make sure Robb wasn’t practicing his swordsmanship somewhere where he could injure someone. He had to keep both older boys from getting overzealous in their pranks. He had to try and keep the girls from arguing, whose rivalry he blamed wholly on Septa Mordane. He had to try and keep Bran from climbing every vertical surface he could get his hands on. The only child who gave him any respite was Rickon and that was because he could only toddle so far, not because of lack of trying. He was grateful Ned hadn’t put him in charge of watching over Theon, because trying to keep that boy from a woman’s skirt was an impossible task.

Before the rebellion, his brothers in the Kingsguard had joked that Jaime was a glorified nursemaid on top of being Kingsguard, because he had taken every opportunity he could to play with Princess Rhaenys. Elia’s ladies in waiting had cooed about how big of a shame it was that his vows meant Jaime couldn’t father any children and some of his brothers would joke that Jaime had joined too young and hadn’t gotten to be with a woman like the rest of them. Jaime had taken those comments as graciously as he could, red faced and embarrassed. In the end, it seemed like he was the one to become a nursemaid, in charge of watching over six children who seemed to have more energy that six Princess Rhaenys’s could ever have. Would ever have.

Thinking of times before the rebellion always made him melancholy. Arthur Dayne had died in the rebellion and Vorian Sand had no reason to mourn those lost to it. Vorian had no reason to weep over the tragedy that befell the royal family. No reason to hate Robert Baratheon. No reason to wonder where Jaime Lannister had disappeared to. No reason to feel such strong guilt over the things he had and hadn’t done.

Some days these thoughts ate at him. He would wake up and wonder what could have been if he had been less trusting of his friend. Rhaegar had convinced him that what he was doing he did to serve a greater purpose and he had believed him. Maybe if he had been a better soldier he would have insisted on being in the field instead of watching over the tower. If he had been a better Dornishman he would have been there to protect his homeland’s princess. If he had been a better friend to Elia he wouldn’t have aided Rhaegar in dishonoring her. If he had been a better brother he would have found a way to inform his family he was alive. If he had been a better Kingsguard he wouldn’t have allowed his king to fall so far. If he had been a better man he wouldn’t have allowed his king to hurt people the way he had.

Other days he would forget who he once was. He’d live his day being Vorian, instead of a man pretending to be Vorian, and his soul would still be melancholy but living would be lighter. Until something would happen that would send him hurtling back. He would hear the stamp of Old Nan’s cane and it would remind him of the times when walking unassisted hurt too much for Elia to care about what other people would say. He would see Jon ruffle Arya’s hair, how she pretended to hate it, and he would remember how his own little sister hated when he would lean his arm on her head. Bran would talk about how he wanted to be an honorable knight like the Sword of the Morning and he would have to nod along as though the boy wasn’t talking about him. After every time he forgot and remembered the guilt would come back heavier.

He wondered if this was his punishment. To live with ghosts that no one else was allowed to know about. It didn’t matter how close sharing secrets had made him and Ned, he couldn’t talk of these ghosts with him. Ned had his own ghosts from the other side of the rebellion. He would rather suffer in silence than give Ned the opportunity to speak ill of those he missed.

He felt like a shade of the man he once was. When they were young, Ashara had told him that he would have made a great lord if he was a bit less trusting and a bit more ambitious. She had called him charismatic, polite, and compassionate, all of which made for a good lord, but also reckless, bullheaded, and uninterested in court politics. Those things were still there, but it felt like they had been buried under sadness and guilt.

Once, he would have gone to the sept to try and find some solace, but after all that tragedy one could only wonder where the gods had been. Where was the Mother’s mercy when Elia and her children had been slaughtered? Where was the Father’s justice when the king burned innocents? The Crone’s guidance when he made terrible decision after terrible decision. The Warrior’s strength when he wanted to die. Now he went to the godswood, not because he believed the old gods would be any more involved, but because the godswood was solitary.

There was a stillness there. It wasn’t peace, but it mimicked it well enough. He would sit with his back against a tree and wait to see if the melancholy would pass. Recently, this had led him to frequently finding Bran scuttling up trees. The boy was, sort of, allowed to climb trees, so he didn’t feel the need to call him down unless he made direct eye contact with the boy. Most of the time Bran wouldn’t even notice him, too busy wanting to go up to bother looking down. They boy climbed without fear, though his mother had enough for the both of them.

Today, he sat with his head tilted up, looking to see is Bran would appear above him. Maybe some of the boy’s joy would bleed over into him. He sat there waiting, for how long he didn’t know, but the Stark he found was not the one he was expecting.

There was rustling in the wood around him, the sound of leaves being kicked up as someone approached. He wasn’t seated against the weirwood, but was seated close enough to it’s grove that anyone coming to pray would likely see him. Once the person came close enough he saw the vibrant red hair of Sansa Stark. The girl was carefully making her way towards the heart tree.

Seeing a Stark in the godswood wasn’t rare, but seeing Sansa in the godswood was. The girl took after her mother in many ways: in appearance, in demeanor, and in her faith. Like her mother, Sansa was more inclined towards the new gods and much more likely to visit the sept than the godswood. Still, it was Sansa who was here now.

She didn’t seem to have noticed him as she neared the heart tree. He decided to call out so that he may leave and give her privacy to pray. “Sansa.”

The girl jumped a foot into the air before whirling around to look at him. “Ser Vorian!” She had her hand pressed against her chest and he could clearly see the whites of her eyes.

Like her mother, Sansa was one of the only ones who called him Ser. Being a hedge knight was part of the Vorian persona, but it felt odd to be called Ser, so he had insisted on people calling him Vorian. Still there were some who insisted on using the title. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t scare me!”

He pushed himself off the ground and stood upright. “Right, well I beg your pardon if I caught you unaware. I’ll be on my way so that I may leave you to your prayer.”

“No,” she squeaked, “Don’t leave.” Her face turned a bright red that matched her hair. “Please, if you would, stand next to me. Please.” She waved her hand to gesture him over.

The blush didn’t leave her face as he made his way around the pond in front of the weirwood tree. If anything, Sansa’s embarrassment only seemed to grow stronger as he drew near. He stopped once he was at about an arm’s length away from her. They stood there a moment and when she didn’t say anything, he spoke up, “If you don’t mind me asking, what are you doing in the godswood?”

Sansa fidgeted for a moment before looking him in the eye. “Arya said I was scared of the godswood. I told her I wasn’t, but she didn’t believe me. She said if I wasn’t scared then I could go into the wood, all the way to the heart tree, and bring back some red sap to prove it. I told her she was being stupid, but she just looked smug and said if I wasn’t scared then there shouldn’t be an issue.”

He had to purse his lips to keep from laughing. Sansa seemed genuinely upset by her sister’s claims and laughing at her wouldn’t make her feel any better. He reined his composure and asked, as seriously as he could, “How are you going to take the sap back?”

Sansa furrowed her brow, “On my handkerchief?” Her response was more question than answer. She then began to fumble through her skirts for the square of cloth.

“You’d be better off gathering some on your hand. If you bring back a handkerchief she can say you sent someone else to get it for you, but if you gather some in your hand it would be hard to say you didn’t get it yourself.” Sansa looked down at her hand and made a face. “Your hand will also be easier to clean than your handkerchief.”

She let out a heavy sigh that seemed to some from deep in her lungs. “Why is Arya such a bother?”

This time he couldn’t resist the laugh, “I think being a bother is part of being a little sister.”

Sansa tilted her head up to look at him. He never spoke of his past. It was easier to keep track of lies when you spoke few of them. He recognized that the statement was too familiar, that it implied something he had never openly spoken of. When Sansa spoke up, her words were shy and curious. “Do you have a little sister?”

“I do.”

“What.. what was she like?”

“She was a bit like you and Arya mixed together. She could be polite and proper when she wanted to, but she could also be unruly and fierce. Some days we would be as thick as thieves and others she would bother me just because she could.” Thinking about Ashara hurt, like picking at a wound that hadn’t properly healed.

“Is she… is she alive?” Sansa seemed flustered by her own boldness. He had to wonder, was his sister alive? News from Dorne didn’t reach the north often and no one here was allowed to talk about Ashara Dayne. If she was dead would he know? Would the gods tell him?

“I don’t know, but I hope she is.” Sansa didn’t know what to say. She looked at him with large, sad eyes and shuffled in place. “You should get the sap and go prove your sister wrong.”

“Ser Vorian, I didn’t mean,” she paused and looked down at her hands. She wrung one through the other, a nervous habit she rarely indulged in. “I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

He had once overheard Jory calling him a man with a sad face. He wondered how she had not noticed until now. “It’s alright Sansa. Sometimes we could use reminders of our family, to make sure we don’t forget them.”


	13. Chapter Thirteen - Myr 298 Ac

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, this is the end of my prequel fic. I have started the GoT rewrite with these added circumstances but it is very slow going. That being said, I have written two extra things to fill out some of the other things that happened between Rhaenys and Jaime and Arthur and Ned's kids in the time jumps. The first one will be up next week and then the other will be up the week after that. Thanks so much for reading and I'm glad y'all liked it.

It was unusual for Rhaenys to be late for dinner. Early in their exile they had come to the agreement that they would be as punctual as possible. Not knowing where the other was or where they should be was a dangerous thing, especially when one of them was a wanted man and the other was a should-be-dead princess. She wasn’t terribly late, but the longer he sat the more anxious he got.

He was ready to go patrol the streets when Rhaenys burst into their home. For a moment, her arrival rankled him. His instincts demanded that he go out the door and find what had made her rush in. But, as he smothered that instinct down, he noted that she had burst in because of excitement, not fear. The look on her face was like the one she used to get when she would present her mother with flowers and sweets she wasn’t supposed to have.

It then took another moment for him to realize what she was wearing. “Why are you wearing a dress?” When she was younger he had asked Rhaenys why she rarely wore dresses, she had told him that she had nothing against dresses, but had admitted that it was easier to move in, and clean, trousers and tunics. Seeing her in a dress, especially one in a Westerosi style, was an oddity.

“Because of the pockets.”

“Your trousers have pockets.”

“Yes, but they are obvious pockets and I needed hidden pockets.”

He felt like they were having half a conversation. “What did you need hidden pockets for?”

She shot him a guilty look that made him suspicious. “I’m going to tell you. But I need you to listen until I’m done explaining.”

He didn’t like the sound of that at all. “What did you need hidden pockets for?”

“Right. I didn’t think that would work anyways,” she muttered under her breath. Before he could reply to that, Rhaenys took a step towards him and said, “Alright. So, I already told you that Corosh has been letting me into the more restricted parts of the library to copy some of those texts.” He nods. “Well, recently Corosh had also been leaving me alone during my writing in the restricted section. The other day I finished my writings early and I started looking at some of the books there and there was a book titled A Wisdom’s Wisdom. The title was so ridiculous I had to look through it, so I did. The book turned out to be an alchemist’s journal about his experiments with wildfire!”

He felt a pressure build up in his chest. When she was younger, she had asked him about what had happened the day of the siege. That day he had told her the story in broad strokes. When she was older she had asked him to tell the story again, but in detail and without holding anything back. And he had told her. He told her about his father’s betrayal, about her family’s death, and about the king’s plot to burn the city. There had been something cathartic about telling her. He had held King Aerys’s secrets for over a decade and there had been absolution in her reaction. He didn’t regret killing the king, and if faced with the choice again he would do it again, but still hearing Rhaenys defend him, even after he pointed out how he had betrayed all his vows, had been sweet. Hearing her talk about wildfire, with the same excitement her grandfather had, scared him.

Rhaenys didn’t seem to notice his conflict. She continued to babble about whatever had been in that book. He felt numb as he watched her reach into her pockets and pull out sheets of paper. It seems she had needed the pockets to sneak information out.

He didn’t start listening again until she walked over and placed the papers in front of him. She reached out to shake his shoulder and said, “Look! He didn’t just write about his efforts in creating wildfire, he also wrote about how he experimented in destroying it.”

He looked down at the papers, but couldn’t focus enough to make sense of any of it. “What?”

She pulled up one of the sheets. “So, I only really trust this one, because he wrote that this was the base destabilization formula that the guild uses to destroy wildfire. As pretentious as this man sounds, with his talk about perfecting _the substance_ , I think this may actually work.”

“Why?”

She finally looked at him. Her excitement faded as she tried to make sense of his face. “Why what?”

“Why did you write this down?”

“You said you never told anyone. That you were the only living person who knew about what they had planned.”

She waited for him to say something. “I am. I killed everyone else who knew.”

Her brow furrowed. She seemed upset with how he had answered. She shook the expression away. “That means that King’s Landing is still lined with caches of wildfire. No one else knows they are there. No one in power even know that wildfire is something they should be worried about and has no reason to go looking for it. Which means they haven’t been destroyed.” Rhaenys took a deep breath and leaned forward to put both her hands on his shoulders. She looked him in the eye and all he could see was her. Even though her eyes were Targaryen purple, they looked so different from Aerys’s eyes. Her eyes were clear, determined, and fierce. His eyes had been cloudy, erratic, and mad. She was not her grandfather. “When we return to Westeros those caches need to be taken care of. Now, if the alchemists refuse to get rid of them, we can do it ourselves.”

She watched him carefully to make sure he understood. He wondered if she had noticed his fear. If she had recognized what it was that had scared him. “Alright,” he nodded, “alright.” She watched him for a moment longer. Her eyes scanned his face and for a moment he was reminded of her mother. Elia hid well behind courtesy and charm, but anyone who could see past that knew that Elia had been a viper, same as her brother. Rhaenys wasn’t just her father’s daughter, but her mother’s as well.

“Good.”

\---

After that day, Rhaenys had taken to memorizing the formula. On top of that, she copied the text onto other pieces of paper and tucked them into various places so that they would always have them. She tucked one into the trunk where they kept their things, into the lining of one of her cloaks, into their traveling packs, and into a pouch he kept on his sword belt. She hadn’t insisted on him memorizing it, but he felt like that had more to do with her respect for him and less to do with her not wanting him to. He had always been open with his contempt toward alchemists and that hadn’t ended just because one of them had written something useful.

Aside from that, their days continued mostly the same. Rhaenys would leave for her apprenticeship, come back and tell him about what she had learned that day, and then practice her swordsmanship with him or practice her archery alone. He would wander around the city during the day and do odd jobs around the town until it was time to meet Rhaenys at their home.

As nice as the routine was he was starting to get restless. There was little for him to do in Myr. Every time he went out he found less and less interesting things. He didn’t care for learning any of Myr’s crafts, he couldn’t risk becoming a sellsword, and brothels were of no interest to him. A part of him missed Braavos and its casual fighting culture, but a larger part of him missed Westeros. It was an odd thought considering he had nothing he wanted to return to. The only person who may be pleased to see him, and he cared about pleasing, was Tyrion. He couldn’t help but wonder how his little brother had fared in his absence.

His father would probably be pleased to see him, but he had long since stopped caring about pleasing his father. Maybe Cersei would be pleased to see him, but distance and time had made him grow disillusioned with their relationship. Sometimes he would lay in bed at night and wonder if Cersei had ever truly loved him. If he was okay with loving her, now that he had time to really think about who Cersei was. In his youth, it had been easy to ignore her flaws, to not consider the woman she was growing to be, but reflection could be a cruel mistress and, in retrospect, it was hard to justify Cersei’s cruelty.

Maybe he missed the familiarity of being in Westeros. The people in Essos were very different, the things they did for entertainment were odd, and, even when made of things he was familiar with, the food was bizarre. Or maybe he was over thinking it, maybe he just missed being able to speak the Common Tongue. Valyrian dialects ruled here and it was easier to just stick to Valyrian than trying to see if people spoke common. Queen Rhaella had insisted on Rhaenys learning High Valyrian and it only seemed natural for that learning to continue here. Even he had taken up learning the language for simplicity’s sake, since it made learning the other dialects easier.

Early in their stay, Rhaenys had said that they wouldn’t stay here long, but now he was starting to doubt. They had been here for over a year and a half and she had not mentioned when that would be taking their leave. He wondered how she had known that they wouldn’t be her long. Most of her visions were abstract and required interpreting. She hadn’t told him, but he had gathered that only her first premonition had been a clear vision. The only one that was more like a memory than anything else.

And what a terrible thing to haunt her. When she had been younger she understood that her family was being murdered, but hadn’t understood the details of what was happening. But, as she got older and relived the vision in her nightmares, the more she remembered the details. If the gods weren’t so cruel they would have shortened the vision; though, if the gods were less cruel, they wouldn’t have allowed Elia and Aegon to die the way they had.

Thinking of them always brought him guilt. If only he had believed in Rhaenys’s first vision as much as Elia had. If only he had insisted on moving all of them instead of just Rhaenys. If only he had been with them during the sack. If only he hadn’t been the last of the Kingsguard in King’s Landing. If only. If only.

Why was it that these thoughts always struck him while he laid in bed? Sleep was always a gamble of rest or uncomfortable reflection. If he was lucky the reflection could give way to an exhausted sleep, but sometimes the reflection would also bring anger. Anger towards himself and his mistakes, towards Rhaegar and his unfaithfulness, towards his father and his ambition, towards Aerys and his madness, and more. His blood would boil when he became angry and that restlessness would chase away any chance of sleep.

It was because of that restlessness that he heard a door in the house open. The squeak of hinges had him launching out of bed. He had to investigate. Even if it was only Rhaenys, he was too agitated to not know. He grabbed his dagger from his bedside table and slipped into the hall.  His steps were light and quite as he darted through the house.

His stealth was for nothing as he found no intruder. Only Rhaenys standing in the dining room. She stood by the table in her sleeping shift. Balerion twisted around her bare feet and rubbed his head against her shin.

“Princess, why are you up?” She slowly turned to look at him. He could tell that she had had a premonition. She was usually solemn after a vision, as though the magic ate at her.

“It’s time we head to Dorne.”

“We agreed that it isn’t safe for you to return to Westeros while Robert is king.”

“We did. But Robert is either dead or about to die.”

“How do you know that? What did you see?” She didn’t answer right away. She stared at him with her bright, sad eyes and he wondered why she hesitated. “What did you see?”

“I saw a black stag with golden antlers and blue eye. I saw this stag gored by a boar,” she paused to stare at him again. There was more to her vision than that, he was sure of it. What did she not want to tell him? Before he could press her, she continued, “By a boar wearing a pelt over its head. A lioness’s pelt with emeralds pressed into the eyes.”

He didn’t understand all the details of the vision, but he understood well enough. Somehow Cersei had killed Robert. He had never told Rhaenys about he and Cersei, but it seemed like she had recognized his love for her. Or rather the love he had once had. “When will we be leaving?”

She studied him a moment. He wondered if she also had the ability to see through a man’s skin and see his soul. “We should rest for tonight and go as soon as possible.”

He nodded and she nodded back at him. She crouched down to pick Balerion up. Something about her hesitance sat wrong with him. They had had only each other for a decade and a half. She had saved him just as much as he had saved her. He wondered if it was doubt that had made her hesitate, or something else entirely. “Rhaenys,” she paused in the doorway. Balerion twisted in her arms to look at him. Violet and gold watched him. “I am loyal to you. Now and always.”

There was no hesitation now, only a soft smile and quiet words. “I know.”


End file.
